


From The Inside We Will Fall

by McFearo, meanoldauthor



Series: Deserters AU [2]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caesar's Legion, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, During Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, M/M, Mutual Pining, Strained Relationships, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-01-15 01:28:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 74,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21245270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McFearo/pseuds/McFearo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanoldauthor/pseuds/meanoldauthor
Summary: Damianus and Marius--Dixie Greene and Alex Rojas, to those not in the Legion--have been charged by Caesar himself to do his bidding in the Mojave desert, undermining the NCR and swaying as many factions as they can to support his war on the West. It should be second nature to Dixie, wholly devoted to the Legion's cause, and iron-willed enough to see his duty to the end. He's sacrificed too much to let himself fail now, even as his faith in the Son of Mars is tested at every turn.But Marius, already under suspicion of treason, has his reservations and isn't shy about sharing them. But it's more than idealism driving him...The longer he spends with Dixie, the less he can imagine being apart from him--and the more he suspects Dixie feels the same, despite the Legion's laws.And the deeper they go into Caesar's machinations, the less time they have to reckon with anything that might lie between them, never mind the war looming over their heads...





	1. Chapter 1

Given Damianus’ mood, Marius couldn’t quite bring himself to say “I told you so.”

He walked behind him on the path to Jacobstown. Damianus had been quiet, even for him, after his audience with Caesar.

Caesar, who had sat immobile on his throne as they approached, expression cold, fingers steepled in front of him. He had sized them up a long moment before saying, slowly, “You have failed twice now to bring the Platinum Chip to me. As one of my own Frumentarii, do you believe I will give you the opportunity for a third failure?” He had sat back, and before Damianus could answer, went on, “We have reports of you working alongside Republic forces, fraternizing with them. Running petty errands for the enemy—a step backwards for you, I would think.”

Marius had watched his Praetorians take a gradual interest, pretending not to listen, but shifting to readier stances, adjusting their grips in their ballistic fists. His blood had run cold, and he saw Damianus struggle to take a breath as Caesar raised a hand—

And laughed in his face. “Relax, I’m just fucking with you.”

He had lounged on his throne as he spoke, sworn casually throughout the conversation, and taken a sort of sick glee in Damianus’ decision to duel Benny in the Arena. Marius had seen him nearly flinch—he wasn’t sure if it was some sense of honor, to let Benny die on his feet, or revenge that made him want to end it in an even fight. But whatever his reason, it wasn’t for the smug pleasure that Caesar met it with. _Destruction of an enemy—There are few things more satisfying…_

He had invited questions from him, a sure sign of favor, and one that Damianus had handled with caution—as had the Son of Mars himself, Marius realized. No mention was made of the Followers of the Apocalypse, of histories before the Great War. Watching over his shoulder, Marius had kept his face neutral when the old man still couldn’t resist bringing them up, even obliquely. _Antithesis,_ Damianus had asked, with a kind of anxious intensity, like learning the word would help him make sense of the world spinning out of control before him.

Caesar had smiled, like a teacher before a particularly dim pupil. “How do I put this basically enough? It's part of a philosophical theory, the kind you might encounter if you took time to read some books.”

Damianus had cut things short after that, claiming his need to begin carrying out Caesar’s orders, the most direct thing he had said since entering the Fort. The old man had approved, in his sneering way, and they had been allowed to leave alive.

And now they were trudging up to Jacobstown, Rex in tow, to see this doctor that might be able to help them… Instead of anything Caesar had ordered.

Marius stared at his back. Damianus had his head low, watching his feet on the path. Twice now Marius had had to get his attention, hearing cazador wings humming ahead of them. Two days ago, he would have looked down his nose at him, asked him what else he had expected from a dictator who promoted rape and murder and the extermination of entire tribes.

Today he just watched him kick listlessly at the snow as they headed up the mountain, and didn’t know what to say.

It was a recent snowfall by the look of it, winter setting in early at this altitude. There should have been something magic in it, with no tracks but their own and the occasional animal, odd shelves built by wind, formations cut into in the snow where the sun touched it. It felt wasted on them, instead. Marius chewed his lip a moment, and found the nerve to ask, “So, is it anything like Ruidoso?”

Damianus didn’t look back. “That’s not important.”

“But is it?” Marius asked, lengthening his stride to walk beside him. “I’ve never been there, so there’s not a lot to compare it to.”

He sighed, glancing over at him. “Yeah, it’s great,” Damianus said shortly, and sped up to overtake him again.

Marius rubbed his face with a hand, letting himself trail further behind. His heart sank a little, and he winced. So this was what it felt like.

But Damianus slowed as they got higher into the pass, the snow almost ankle-deep here. His head was up, looking at the white-gilt pines, turning just enough that Marius could see the distant, hard expression he wore when he was trying to hold his composure.

Marius took a breath. Knowing he was about to take his own life into his hands, he bent down as he walked.

The snowball splattered against the back of Damianus’ head, making him stagger and yelp. He whirled with murder on his face, drawing up short at the sight of Marius calmly packing another handful of snow. Scowling, he threw a loose fistful in Marius’ general direction. “Knock it off.”

Marius said nothing, waiting the long moment it took for Damianus to turn. He dodged the second snowball, red-faced as he spat, “What are you, a child?”

The third was met with a snowball of Damianus’ own, hitting Marius in the chest hard enough to drive the air out of him. He dodged the next, diving for the cover of the pines, and Damianus was after him, snow spattering off the trees as they traded shots. Rex was barking, running back and forth and trying to catch snowballs out of the air. The ones that hit were clinging and wet, thrown with little mercy by either of them, and Marius couldn’t help but grin, the cold air stinging his throat. Damianus leaned out from behind a tree, just long enough for Marius to throw an miss. He just hoped he was—

Marius sputtered and gasped as a snowball hit him full in the face, and he could feel the sun on his back as he retreated, wiping it away. The mountain path had gone silent, and he turned on the spot, scanning the trail and the woods for movement. “Dixie?” he called, a little tentative. There was no reply. “Alright, I’m sorry if I took it too far,” he said, still searching. “I just thought that—”

He made a shrill noise as something wet and cold hit the back of his neck, the force of it knocking him onto a knee. In the corner of his vision, he saw Damianus slip as he landed, one foot going out from under him and ending up on his ass.

“I didn’t mention,” he said, panting a little as Marius dug snow out of the collar of his jacket, “that I won that snowball fight in Ruidoso.”

Marius nodded, nose wrinkled in discomfort even as he grinned. The worst of the snow gone, he stood, offering Damianus a hand. “I yield.”

“You had better,” Damianus said, severe. He was soaked, starting to shiver despite the sun, but Marius thought he picked out a little better humor on his face as he set off again. He looked back at Marius a moment, as though ready to say more—and then sharply up the hill.

A couple huge figures were watching over a crest in the path, wearing sparse clothing and improvised armor over their leathery green skin. One grinned and nudged the other. “Twenty caps, the little guy won.”

The loser threw his head back to laugh, passing over a clinking handful. Catching sight of the two of them, he beckoned them closer. “Welcome to Jacobstown, humans,” he said. “You’re free to walk around, but we’ll ask that you keep the snowball fights _outside_ the walls. Hate to see you taken out by the kind of snowball a super mutant can throw.”

Damianus ducked his head, embarrassed, and started up the hill. Marius stayed half a step behind, watching him—and couldn’t help but smile to himself.

They were pointed to the lodge by the town’s mayor, and mutants stared down at them as they passed, unfriendly but not hostile. Damianus kept a steady, calm tread, and Marius tried to emulate it as much as he could, even if he heard a couple dire mutters in their wake.

The doctor in the lodge was hardly any friendlier, but agreed to inspect the dog for them. In short order, Rex sat on the counter in the lab, panting a little uneasily. Doctor Henry had his chin in his hand, frowning at the data as it loaded on his screen. His ghoul assistant kept a hand on the wires she’d plugged into the edge of Rex’s brain case, idly rubbing behind his ears.

The two of them stood off to one side, where Henry had banished them for distracting the dog. Damianus had hopped up to sit on a table, and Marius leaned next to him, arms folded. He watched Damianus play with his butterfly knife, still folded as he turned it end over end. He had stopped his usual routine, flicking and rolling the open blade through his hands, when the doctor had threatened to kick them out of the building entirely.

Henry murmured something, and the ghoul adjusted the leads. Rex tipped his head to watch, and she scratched him under his chin. The room was otherwise quiet, and Marius shifted his weight. Almost under his breath, he said. “Surprised you didn’t take us directly to the Strip, like he wanted.”

The knife stopped moving. Neither of them had to clarify who _he_ was. “We’re repairing some of his property,” Damianus said, expression unchanged. “Rex will be more useful for his tasks if we do.”

Damianus kept his gaze straight ahead, and started to roll his knife up and down his thigh. Marius kept him in the corner of his eye as he asked, “Wasn’t what you expected, was he?”

He did look over then, a warning in his eyes. Marius met the look for only a moment before glancing away.

The doctor was standing, his assistant unplugging Rex from the terminal. “Well, I have good news and bad news,” he said, helping her lift the dog down. His back cracked faintly, and he winced. “This cyberdog is in excellent shape for his age, except for the usual consequences of having a biological central processor…”

***

”A brain?”

Marius tried to keep out of sight while Dixie spoke to the houndmaster. He saw Damianus almost sigh again, gesturing to Rex sitting politely at heel. The Legion mongrels lounged behind Antony, watching the two of them curiously, but with none of their usual restrained savagery.

“Look,” Damianus said, exasperated. “They won’t even fight me. I’m good with animals.” He reached down, taking a teddy bear from a gray-muzzled female. Instead of snapping at him or ripping it away, she let it go with a tip of the head.

Antony’s mouth actually hung open a moment. Scratching at the back of his neck, he said slowly, “I suppose it would make Lupa immortal, in a way…”

Marius pushed away from the wall, wandering deeper into the Fort. It was a stupid thing, after all he’d seen and done, to be squeamish about this—but it would have been easier if he’d decided to fight her. He could almost hear Damianus’ voice, _Man up, it’s just a dog—_

But would he have? There had been apologies between them, followed by a sort of distance, or maybe just silent acknowledgment that it had always been there and neither knew how to navigate it.

Marius kept walking, for its own sake, his mind seeming to work better when he moved. He kept his face turned a little away as he passed other Legionaries, avoiding conversation, avoiding anyone who might recognize him—and might recognize that until a few weeks ago, had been held by his own side under suspicion of treason. Caesar hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t even acknowledged him… Was he in the clear? Had working with Damianus been enough to establish his loyalty?

Turning to avoid the gaze of a couple passing men, Marius slowed. The slave pens next to the Arena weren’t large, never intended to hold more than a few prisoners to challenge, and a pair of sullen men in slave rags looked back at him. There was a steady puffing noise coming from the empty pen beside them, and he wandered closer, curious. A broad-shouldered woman was on the floor of the cell, counting push-ups under her breath.

“Our latest rising star.” Marius glanced over. Otho, the Arena organizer, had wandered over to watch. “A Ranger, taken alive. Killed two of our men on her way back here, and has three Arena wins already—barehanded.” He grinned with an edge that made Marius want to break his nose, and rattled the chain-link on the pen. “What do you say, Stella? Scared of this one?”

She just kept powering through, counting louder, _thirty-three, thirty-four…_

Otho gave the pen another rattle and stepped back. “Of course, you’d start with one of these,” he said, waving to the men, and looked at him expectantly. “Well? Want to prove yourself? I heard a rumor you could use a little more…credibility, these days.”

Marius just managed to keep from drawing up tense. “I have better things to do,” he said, coolly. “Let me know when you have anything worth my time.”

“Apologies, Frumentarius, I forgot you’re better than the rest of us,” Otho said, without much heat. “Mention it to Damianus, if you can step off your pedestal long enough. There’s men in from Arizona who tell me he’s usually spoiling for a fight.”

Marius raised his eyebrows, glancing back. He could make out Damianus wandering away from the hounds, turning over the teddy bear in his hands. “He never struck me as the type.”

“Oh, trust me, it’s always the ones with something to compensate for,” he said, indicating someone standing about shoulder high. “Run the Arena as long as I have, and you see the pattern.”

“I’ll pass it along,” Marius said, while making a mental note to forget to as soon as he could, and added a little icily, “if Caesar thinks we should be wasting our time with such things.”

His smug expression faded a little. With as much haughtiness as he could muster, Marius gave him a nod as he turned away, head high.

***

"Do you know me?" the woman asked, looking him levelly in the eye.

Damianus glanced around on instinct. No one was walking the ridge above the brahmin pen, no men lingered at the gate—and why would they? It was the slaves' work to mind the cattle, no men needed go near the stench. Except foolish ones who made time to befriend little girls, evidently.

When he looked back the slave woman was still watching him, arms crossed, Melody shifting her weight from foot to foot beside her. Despite the confidence she tried to project he could see the nervous tension in the woman's shoulders, the way her head cocked to listen for passing Legionaries, same as him—trying not to give away that she was doing it. Wanting him to see that she wasn't afraid of him or them.

Bold.

"I do not," he said. He kept his eyes turned away from her stare, uncomfortable. Not down, but looking just past her ear instead. It wouldn't do to look submissive to a slave, but he had trouble looking many people in the eye. Women especially.

"You risk a great deal, speaking to me," he said, and winced internally when he saw her shoulders tense up higher. Hadn't meant it as a threat. He had better things to do with his time than to terrorize—"... Why?"

"Because I know _you."_ She watched him carefully a moment longer, then said: "You look just like your daddy."

Damianus' eyes snapped back to hers, his stomach lurching.

_Long dark hair, down to her waist or up in a loose bun. A leg made of metal from the knee down. The smell of black grease, smudged up to her elbows and in lines rubbed on a blurry face he couldn't remember._

Damianus' only memories were static images he could count on the fingers of one hand, all of them blurry and without context. But it was too easy to fit the slave standing before him into them.

Smaller than she was in his mind's eye, almost half a head shorter even than him, rather than a giant. The straight black hair—so much like his own, when it grew—was salted with grey and chopped short around her head, and it was dirt caked on her face and hands, not grease. The prosthetic on her left leg was crude but well-maintained, couldn't tell if it was a match for the one he vaguely remembered.

But it was her. He knew it was her.

The woman hadn't taken her gaze off him for a second. He wasn't sure she'd blinked, watching him for danger the way she was, her fingers twitching against her biceps with his every movement... but never looking away. Just staring, grey eyes boring holes into him.

He knew them, now that he was looking.

He saw them in the mirror often enough.

Damianus sucked in a breath and tried a hundred questions in his head, but the first one that strained past his teeth was, "What's your name?"

She finally blinked. "Ridley."

"That's not a Legion name."

She lifted her chin. "No man calls me by a name anyhow, so what's it matter which one I answer to?"

Very bold. He half wondered how she'd survived this long.

"I don't have time to play catch up," she went on, finally glancing up the ridge. "I came to ask your help."

"What do you need?" he asked, quick enough to surprise them both; she jerked her head back to him, but kept her face neutral.

"What do you think? I need out of here." His face must have betrayed something, because she hurried on, keeping her voice low. "I'm not asking you to walk me out the front gate. I have my own ideas on getting free, but I can't pull it off without your help."

"Why—-are you—?" He worked his jaw, trying to process. She must be mad. "Why would you risk asking me this?"

His head was spinning, trying to make sense of the situation. It was the—the sheer _foolhardiness_ of asking. Of course he wouldn't betray her for it, of course he wouldn't bring her harm. But how was she to know that? What made her so quick to bet on his kindness?

Because he was her son?

The thought did something strange to him from his belly to his throat.

"Melody tells me you're a good one." She nodded to the girl. "A few of the women suspect the same. We watch your kind, you know, and talk. About which ones to stay away from, and which ones might just have half a heart left."

Damianus looked absently at the little girl, standing between the two of them. She looked back with wide eyes but didn't cower away. Just hugged her bear, unwittingly damning him with it.

"So," Ridley went on, "just maybe you're good enough to help your poor mother, if you got any love left in you after what they done when they stole you from me."

"Few would," he said, his voice strange. "You could have gotten yourself killed approaching me like this. Do you even care?"

She lifted her chin again, looking up at him impassively, and he felt a little smaller. "Twenty two years I've been a slave. I'll die one, too, miserable and broken down in a few more. I'm getting old. Take my chances on one last little hope of walking free again, if you're the man Melody thinks you are. And if we're still talking, you might be.

"Or you ain't, and you have me killed a lot sooner," she finished. "I don't got much left to lose any damn way."

The crosses lining the path up to the Fort said otherwise, he thought, feeling his stomach twist. Caesar's punishment meant no matter how much was taken from you, you always had one more thing to lose: the hope of an easy death.

Damianus doubted he needed to tell her that. For all her bravado, he caught Ridley's temple throbbing with the anxious clench of her jaw.

"I'll find a way to help you," he heard himself say.

It was hard to think of anything else with mother's eyes on him.

"I already have ideas about how you can help me," she said tensely, but he saw her shoulders relax a little. "We have a whole plan."

_We?_

Damianus looked dubiously at Melody, who smiled a tiny smile up at him.

"No, not the girl," Ridley hissed. "But I ain't leaving her behind."

"There are others in on this?"

"Rather die than walk free knowing I left the women here to take a whipping or worse in my place." Ridley pressed her lips in a thin line. "It'll be a bunch of us, you don't need to know who right now. But we can do it if we plan it right."

"What you're asking me to do is—"

"Will you or won't you?" Ridley looked at the ridge again, the gate, then up at the sun. "This is going on longer than I can spare, boy, I need an answer."

"I'll—I'll do something. I'll help you."

He was an idiot.

He was her _son._

That wasn't supposed to mean anything to him. He only knew enough about family from the outside looking in to know he barely even knew what mother and son meant, other than just words.

Somehow it still meant a lot more to him than it should.

He couldn't say no, even when he realized he should have a second after he'd already said yes. He couldn't, not when she looked at him again, some—_something_ in her eyes that looked like his, that made the lump in his throat threaten to choke him.

"Give me time," he said, voice thick and strained, "I have work I need to do elsewhere."

Ridley nodded, face softening just an inch, or did he imagine it? "Doing this right will take time anyway. Look for me when you're able."

She turned and walked away without another word once he'd nodded his agreement, leaving him alone with Melody and her bear and the brahmin, and all the thoughts racing in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

“If you shock yourself, you know all I’ll be able to do is laugh at you.”

“I’m not convinced you can laugh,” Marius said, standing up to stretch. He had been hunched over one of the safehouse beds, a disassembled cattle prod spread across it. He sighed as he reached for an energy cell that had fallen off his lap. “If you could, you would have, talking to that idiot at Helios.”

“Please,” Damianus said, sitting cross-legged on another bed, Rex sprawled out behind him. He looked better with his new brain, brighter-eyed and more energetic, and was putting it to use by working his nose under Damianus’ hand. Without seeming to notice, he obliged by scratching his ears “I was too busy despairing for the human condition.”

Marius snorted, wandering as he stretched his legs. The radio was on, the only bright point in the dreary safehouse basement. It was eerily quiet otherwise, so far from other habitation, and the only other noise were the two of them moving around. Marius turned the radio up a little as he passed. It didn’t fill the silence quite right, and he said, “This wasn’t here last time I was in. Glad someone thought of it.”

Just a _hm_ from Damianus, distracted by a rustling of papers. He’d taken the best bed, of course, in the far corner and out of sight of the stairs, leaving Marius to turn the middle one into a rat’s nest of electronics. It had made him nervous, with Damianus watching him work—this was skirting too close to the sort of technology Cesar had banned. But he had just watched with frank curiosity, even picking up the grungy little book on circuitry that Marius was referencing to peer at the diagrams.

His project nearly done, he rubbed his temples, feeling a little cross-eyed from so much close work. It would be worth it, hopefully. He poked around the room as he loosened up, examining the crates in the corner for whatever else had been stashed here. He squinted into a locker, reaching in to pick up a toy dinosaur someone had left. He held it out towards Damianus, mouth open to ask if it was one of Gabban’s stupid jokes, and froze.

Damianus was sitting back on the bed, a rough little book open on one knee, scratching at it with a bit of charcoal. He seemed to feel Marius staring at him, and looked up, pushing a pair of thick glasses higher on his nose. “What?”

Marius had to press his lips together tight to keep from smiling, and barely managed to mutter, “Nothing.”

Damianus held the look a moment longer, owlish and unreadable, before pointing at the dinosaur, an eyebrow raised.

He flushed a little, a Legionary holding a child’s toy. Rather than stutter an excuse, he tucked it under his arm and folded them, daring him to comment.

Damianus held up a finger and looked down at his paper. Marius leaned forward to see. “What are—”

_“Ah,”_ and he pointed again, and Marius leaned back, feet away but still feeling the force in it. He stayed where he was until he held the page up. Squeezed into the corner, Marius stared back at himself, dinosaur and all, a look of wounded pride on his face.

He threw the toy at him, turning away to hide his grin. Damianus held up the book as a shield, and Marius heard him laugh, quick and quiet. It took a second to sink in, and Marius glanced back—but Damianus had his head down again, a fresh page open.

Marius left him to it, sitting on the far bed. He picked up the cattle prod body, and said mildly, “Since when do you wear glasses?”

“Since I thought you wouldn’t laugh at them.”

He glanced up. Damianus was still fixated on the page, not looking at him. He pushed his glasses up again as he watched, and shuffled to turn away a little. Marius bent over his project again, and just stared for a moment. He felt nervous, suddenly. The silence felt expectant, and he groped for something to fill it with. “Drawing’s kind of an odd skill for a Legionary.” Which did not help the nerves _at all._

Damianus shrugged, but still didn’t look over. “It’s been useful, now and then. Reconnaissance. Tracked down a few people out West with sketches of them.”

Marius nodded, starting to wrap some of the extra wire around the prod. He found himself watching Damianus under his brow. He’d known full well he should have been punished for losing the Chip. He’d met Caesar, and the old man had come up short. He’d been forced to fight in the Arena, just to prove his worth. Maybe…?

“They usually beat skills like that out of Legionaries,” Marius said, finding the end on a roll of tape. “I swear they treat just holding a pencil to be a sign you’re not man enough to fight.”

“The Legion does what’s necessary to bring order to the world,” Damianus said, far calmer than Marius would have. “And doodling in a notebook isn’t preventing me from doing my other duties, even if it _isn’t_ necessary.”

Marius kept winding the tape around the prod. The silence seemed to demand some sort of answer again, but all he could muster was a ‘huh’ that he tried not to make too skeptical.

He finished up his work, tidying as much as he could. Stowing the scrap electronics in a locker, he didn’t look at Damianus as he headed back to the bed, and paused at the piece of paper on his pillow. Studying the drawing, he held it up for Damianus to see, eyebrow raised.

Closing his book, Damianus looked archly back. “Maybe if you keep that, you won’t waste so much time looking at yourself in the mirror.”

“I don’t—” Marius lobbed a pillow at him. Damianus batted it out of the air, snickering.

He snagged the pillow off the middle bed, laying back before unlacing his boots. Damianus shuffled around a while more, going to turn off the radio and kick Rex off the bed before reaching for the light.

Marius dozed, but the only sound in the safehouse was the two of them and Rex, and every breath, every rustle of fabric, seemed unreasonably loud. He found himself staring at the ceiling, invisible in the dark, fighting to urge to scratch his nose in case it made a noise. Across the room, he heard Damianus clear his throat carefully, sounding half-strangled as he tried to keep quiet.

Finally Marius sighed, about to sit up and ask if he should turn the radio back on. As he did, there was a muffled growl from Damianus’ stomach, followed by a soft but mortified, _”Heck.”_

Marius bit his lip, but the laugh came snorting out anyway. He slapped a hand over his face, managing to wheeze, “I’m sorry.” Damianus was silent—or rather, struggling to gasp for air as he laughed. Marius went to turn the radio on as he got a hold of himself, and managed a few deep breaths before adding, “Darn.”

“Crap,” Damianus choked.

Marius flopped back onto the bed. “Rats.”

“Jeez.” He sounded almost normal again, and Marius heard him settle. A soft, mournful guitar piece was playing on the radio, and he kept his eyes open in the dark as he listened. It was a companionable quiet, now. Pleasant.

And he could have had that a lot sooner, if he had given Damianus a chance from the start, instead of writing him off as a loss. Marius wiped a hand down his face and turned over, trying not to sigh at the thought.

“Marius?”

He paused, giving up on mashing the rock-hard pillow in to shape. “Yeah?”

Damianus’ voice was small, from the other side of the room. “Do you remember your mother?”

Marius looked back over at him, a dark-on-dark shape in the basement. Laying his head down, he said shortly, “Yes.” He hoped his tone would be enough to warn him off, but after a moment—

“What was she like?”

“She was a violent, angry woman,” Marius said. “And she got our tribe killed.”

A rustle, as Damianus shifted. “She couldn’t have been that bad.”

“She was.” He could just make out cracks on the wall beside him, in the faint light coming down the stairs, and he studied them as he thought. “She was selfish. Thoughtless. Even before she brought the Legion down on us, she was…” He remembered watching her across camp, laughing as his brother made a face over the smell of the hide he was tanning. Watched her smile fade as she looked over at him, until his father took him by the arm and turned his back to her, told him to focus on his mending. _If she doesn’t care to come over here…_

“She must have loved you,” Damianus said. “That’s what…”

“Not her,” Marius said, sharply. The way she’d frown at him, avoid him. The fights with his father. His brother, telling him all the things she was teaching him as a hunter, blaming his father for keeping them apart, until _they_ came to blows…

It was better that she was dead.

Damianus had fallen silent. Marius folded the pillow over his head anyway, knowing it wouldn’t block him out, but hoping he’d take the hint. He heard him turn over after a while, and after longer still, give the sigh of someone falling into a deeper sleep.

Marius screwed his eyes shut, willing himself to to do the same. It was all done and nothing would ever changed what happened; it didn’t matter, she didn’t matter.

_So why did Damianus ask?_

He opened his eyes to stare at the wall again, the music over the radio still soft and low. Shaking his head, he tried to get more comfortable. Damianus wanted them to be the best Legionaries they could. Marius would oblige him, then; there wasn’t a Legionary worth the name who would fret over mothers and love.

***

“Howdy pardner! The boss is hoppin’ mad it took you so long to bring the Chip to the ol’ 38.” The Securitron rolled to block the elevator in the center of the casino. “Now, you and I ought to get upstairs an’ see him _yesterday,_ but your pal is gonna have to stay down here.”

“He’s coming with me. Let us up,” Damianus said. Behind him, Marius shifted his grip on a salvaged NCR service rifle.

“No can do, friend, strict orders. Just tell him to take a breather in the casino here, and—”

Damianus looked back over his shoulder. Sharing a nod with Marius, he unhooked the heavy cattle prod from his belt, jamming the end under the robot’s screen. Electricity arced over over its chassis, the glass of the screen shattering. Marius turned, hearing the whole thing fall backwards with the _crumf_ of dented metal, opening fire on one of the other machines flanking them. Armor piercing rounds ripped through the steel, and it floundered a moment, trying to aim as smoke billowed from the bullet holes. A pulse grenade sailed towards the third, and he threw up an arm to block the flash, lowering it with the rifle up, just in time to see both machines hit the ground.

Damianus held up the prod with an appraising look. Giving it a little shake, he said. “I’m keeping this.”

“Battery won’t last too long,” Marius said. Damianus was already peering at the terminal beside the elevator, but stepped aside as Marius looked over his shoulder. “There’s a penthouse floor, cocktail lounge, and a presidential suite,” he said, reading them off in order. “Where is he?”

Damianus shrugged. “Presidential suite,” he said, without much confidence. “Or no, is the penthouse the top floor? Maybe—”

The elevator doors slid open. _”You are going to return my property, even if I have to take it from your cooling corpse.”_

The voice from the terminal was tinny and faint, but the wrath in it seemed ready to burn through the speaker grille. Marius flicked his eyes towards the ceiling, a question, and Damianus nodded. They stepped into the elevator together, checking over their weapons as the doors slammed shut. Damianus adjusted the grenade belt on his chest as Marius reloaded his partially-spent magazine. “Doesn’t sound like a ghoul,” he said. Damianus gave him a questioning look, and Marius shrugged. “How else would he have lived this long?”

“We get to find out,” Damianus said, readying the prod again.

_”You will do no such thing.”_ House’s voice wasn’t much better through the elevator speaker, but Marius could still hear him seething. “You _will oblige your breach of contract by laying down and dying._ You… _You weren’t at the bunker. What does that make you? Human shield? Hired help?”_ The two of them glanced at each other as the elevator slowed. _”You know he serves a despot and a tyrant, and I guarantee working for me will be more lucrative than serving either of them. Bring me the Chip, and we can discuss… An improvement to your circumstances.”_

Damianus was still watching him, eyes a little narrowed. Marius shook his head and raised the rifle towards the door.

Another two Securitrons were waiting outside the elevator. A pulse grenade bowled toward them, shutting down one and making the other’s screen flicker madly, firing at a point well above Marius’ head. Damianus lunged at a third with the prod as it rolled around the corner.

“Do you understand what I could offer you?” House’s voice came from his right, and Marius rounded the stairs slowly, rifle at the ready. He glanced back at the crack and fizz of a pulse grenade—Damianus had continued through an archway to the left. “Alex Rojas, according to your passport—Oh, don’t look so surprised. Everything my Securitrons see passes through this tower.”

“And what else do you know?” Marius kept creeping forward, searching for anywhere he might be hiding. He could hear him, hiding somewhere ahead, if he could keep him talking…

“Were you truly an NCR soldier? If so, you know the threat Caesar poses not just to New Vegas, but to every society that has clawed its way back from the brink.” There was a freestanding wall in the middle of the room, enclosing a small living space. Marius resettled his grip on the gun and took another step.

“Marius! Terminal!” Damianus shouted from the other end of the room.

He half-turned, ready to bolt. “Marius, after all? Hm.” But the voice was definitely coming from behind the wall, and he froze, torn. “Let me take an educated guess. One of Caesar’s Frumentarii, with former deep cover in the NCR army, assisting this bald little cretin as he runs Sallow’s errands.” Marius couldn’t help but look sharply towards House, and he sounded pleased when he went on, “Oh, you know the name? Intriguing. Very intriguing. I _would_ be interested in speaking to you alone.”

The sound of gunfire had intensified on the far side of the room. There was an edge of panic in Damianus’ voice as he yelled, ”Marius!”

“I have spent over two hundred years playing odds,” House said, still ducked out of sight, but the urgency in his voice was unmistakable. “And I know that no man in your position would suffer under that megalomaniac a _second longer_ when an offer like mine is on the table. Return the Chip to me, and you will be a partner in this, not a pawn.”

_”Marius!”_

“Disregard him. He’ll be dealt with shortly.”

Marius rounded the wall in a rush, the rifle trained head-high on a man. “Call off your machines and—”

A Securitron stared back at him, the image of a haughty, thin-lipped man on its screen. It flickered, replaced by the usual policeman’s face as it raised an arm.

He unloaded on it, snapping a fresh clip into the rifle as he sprinted for the other side of the room. Marius plunged a hand into the pouch on his belt, tossing a grenade ahead of himself as he entered an open area. “What kept you!?” Damianus yelled, huddled beside a console. The prod lay on the floor beside him, a scorch mark under it on the tile.

The pulse grenade had cleared the nearest two machines, and Marius strafed the third and last with his rifle. He looked back to Damianus, climbing over a disabled Securitron—and up at the console screen. That same green-toned face stared down at him. “Do you understand the _regression_ you represent? For all of humanity?” House said, livid.

Damianus scooped up a piece of debris from the floor, weighing it in his hand before sending it smashing through the glass. “Come on,” he said. “Unless you’d like to take another scenic detour.”

“Thought I had him cornered,” Marius said, wiping his hands dry before holding the rifle ready again. “He played me.”

“You should have stuck with—”

“I _know.”_

He looked back at him, and seemed to accept the look on Marius’ face as apology enough.

There was another elevator, behind what had been a secret panel. Damianus pressed the Chip into a round indentation on the terminal beside it, and the readout switched from _Locked_ to _Admin logon_. “Leads to a control room,” Marius said quietly, reading over his shoulder.

Damianus nodded, punching the elevator open. They both readied their weapons as it came to a halt that the bottom of the shaft, ready for another onslaught of machines, but all that lay beyond the elevator doors was a dark, yawning emptiness. They waited for their eyes to adjust, the air tinged with the smell of metal and rust. Machete in hand, Damianus gave Marius a nod, and he fell in a step behind as he entered the room, rifle up to cover him. Their boots rattled the walkway that cut across the gap, the room large enough to give no echo back. The only working lights were trained on an oblong white shape, at the other end of the walkway.

Marius found himself lowering the rifle, and Damianus had slowed, walking closer to him. This wasn’t a place where someone, no matter how much of a recluse, would hide away from the world. This was a tomb.

He lingered by a terminal as Damianus went ahead, cautiously approaching the pod. Only one option was available on the screen: _Unseal LS chamber._ He frowned at it a moment. “Damianus? What do—”

He gasped, leaning away from the pod. Damianus backpedaled to the terminal, not taking his eyes off the pool of light.

“What is it?” Marius asked, a hand on his gun.

Damianus took a deep breath, and said, a little too evenly, “Can you open it?”

_LS. Lit space? Long-sealed?_ “Yeah,” Marius said, tapping a key. A warning popped up: _Microbial infection risk. Proceed?_

“Is something wrong?” Damianus said, leaning over to read. Marius saw his lips move, trying to puzzle through it.

“Looks like a safeguard. Shouldn’t stop anything,” Marius said, highlighting _yes._ “Ready?” Damianus stepped back and nodded, getting a better grip on his machete.

When he looked back down, another prompt had appeared lower on the screen.

_My offer stands._

A chill went up his back. Damianus shot him a curious look, and Marius tried to hide the tremor in his hand as he unsealed the pod.

Seams appeared across the white plastic, air hissing into the room. The top half opened with a waft of vapor, and whatever was inside was backlit, obscured. Damianus squared his shoulders, seemed to steel himself as he stepped forward, something rising out of the mist.

Marius stared at the…_Thing,_ something in him refusing to recognize it as human. He had seen bodies left to dessicate in the wasteland, skin drawn tight to the bones and the limbs shrunken and crabbed, and the thing before him had more in common with those mummified corpses than a living being. Machinery was attached to it, a halo of winking lights around its head, and others—his stomach turned—that fed tubes from the pod and into its flesh. This thing couldn’t be alive. It couldn’t be…

But it stirred, strapped to a sort of platform that lifted from the chamber, its dead, milky eyes trying to open, its arms jerking as it wheezed, “Why have you…done this? Centuries…of preparation…”

He could _smell_ it now, not so much rot as dryness and dust, something chemical that made Marius gag. He didn’t hear if Damianus responded, but the machete flashed, and there was a gurgle from the abomination on the platform. Looking up, he almost expected to see the body torn like paper, or shattered like old, stiff leather, but blood was running from its neck, fresh and human.

Damianus wiped his machete clean before sheathing it, giving Marius a concerned look. He waved him off, weakly, still taking deep breaths to keep his stomach under control. His feet dragged as they returned to the elevator, and Damianus looked back again. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

Marius slowed to a stop, the cavernous room stretching away below, Damianus before him and a perversion of humanity behind. But two hundred years of work, everything House had made of New Vegas…

_Do you understand the regression you represent?_

“Was this right?”

Damianus tipped his head, something like disbelief on his face. _“Yes.”_ Marius didn’t move. Damianus frowned, looking away as he thought. “House failed before any of this started,” he said, idly touching the deep scar cutting across his cheek where Benny had shot him, one that had shattered his jaw and put a permanent slushy lisp to his words. “Everything he did was for _him,_ to the point that his lieutenants turned their backs, even when he was reduced to…” He pointed over Marius’ shoulder, “and stuck relying on them. You complained enough about Freeside. He hid away here and let the Strip run to ruin so long as he was safe, so long as the NCR was able to be strung along, so long as he could keep his _own_ interests going. Men like him are what let the Old World burn, Marius.” He tried to catch his eyes, but Marius looked away. “And you saw what he paid for it, two hundred years too late.”

“Yeah,” Marius said at last, taking a step towards him. “You’re right. He was a despot.” _And Caesar isn’t?_ He clenched his jaw on the words, but said around them, “The world’s better off without men like him.”

Damianus nodded, pushing the button for the upper level. “This was the right thing to do, Marius,” he said. The doors slid shut, and they swayed as the elevator started to rise. “If he wasn’t willing to make sacrifices for the rest of world, he didn’t deserve to be in it.”

And Marius could only close his eyes and nod.


	3. Chapter 3

There were people circling the Boulder City memorial, a handful in civilian clothes, a couple in Army fatigues. Most had scraps of paper and pieces of charcoal to take rubbings from the stone, and some were crying openly, the rest sober and serious as they searched for the names they knew.

Damianus tried to watch without staring. Grief, in his experience, wasn’t something you shared.

And there would never be a monument like this on the other side of the river.

He leaned against the front wall of the saloon, taking advantage of the shade. Marius had wandered off with Rex while he had gotten his canteen refilled, and he silently started counting ten minutes before he left without him. It would serve him right, having to chase along behind again. He spent too much time sitting around tinkering with garbage instead of keeping himself in shape, and maybe the lesson would stick this time.

But there was still that little part of him that worried he _had_ finally left for good—especially since they were headed back to the Fort for orders. Marius had been quiet since his…_spell,_ after dealing with House. Damianus had let him be. If it took him a while to come around to the facts, so be it. Marius wasn’t stupid—wasn’t _that_ stupid, anyway—and felt the same sad contempt for what House had made of New Vegas. They’d done the right thing, and if he hadn’t left yet, he wasn’t going to.

He realized he’d lost track of time and glanced at his Pip-boy before restarting his count. Give him another ten minutes. Maybe fifteen, just to be safe.

His eyes wandered back to the memorial. The mourners were packing up, folding away their papers and nodding tearfully to each other. One of them glanced his way, and Damianus turned aside, not intruding, not…

Not thinking to himself, _Even if there had been a monument with the names of Legionaries, there would be no one left to search for his._

Unless Ridley—?

Another figure was coming around one of the ruined buildings, dog at his heels, flipping something end over end. Marius looked up as Damianus pushed away from the wall, and they shared a nod. He couldn’t help but take one last look at the monument as he passed, the names in sharp relief with the sun directly overhead.

“Did you lose someone here?” one of the women asked, the one who had noticed him watching. Her voice was still thick, and she wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Yes,” he said. _And we wouldn’t be having this conversation if you knew which side they were on._

She tried to smile, or at least her mouth turned up a little. “I’m so sorry. It’s hard to lose people, even if they were heroes, in the end.” She reached for the bag at her side, fumbling at the clasp. “I have more paper here, if you…”

“No, thank you,” Damianus said, holding up a hand. “I already paid my respects.” He inclined his head to her, not meeting her eyes, and caught up with Marius where he’d stopped on the road before turning south. Rex trotted over to sniff at him, still anxious over being left out of the 38, where his teeth would have been little use against machines.

He rubbed the dog on the nose and watched out of the corner of his eye as Marius hung his backpack off one arm, dropping a pair of rusty railroad spikes into a pocket. Damianus almost asked, almost gave him flak for weighing himself down with junk, but the memorial at the edge of the ruined town was heavy in his mind. It shouldn’t have been. It was foolish, that the NCR would venerate the handful of soldiers that had died here, made it something special that they laid down their lives—any one of them should have been ready to, without a moment’s hesitation—

Without knowing if someone would come there, afterward, and—

“I was somewhere in Utah when it happened.” Marius resettled his pack as he walked, not looking at Damianus. “Running messages back from the Colorado front. It was the quietest I’d ever seen a Legion camp, a couple days after the Burned Man was executed.”

Damianus only nodded. Anything more was too much effort.

“I remember there was some bad blood between our infantry and the Frumentarii,” Marius said, after a long pause. “That we hadn’t had the guts to be on the Dam proper, when so many of them died. I wound up breaking a few noses over it, anyway. Did you get pulled into it at all?”

_That_ was easy to answer, anyway. “No,” he said, once he’d found his voice, put aside the rest of the words twisting through his head without rhyme or reason. “I was in Navarro. Dealing with some of the Bear’s supply lines to the Divide.”

He saw Marius nod, and the silence drew long as he waited for Damianus to say more. “You didn’t miss much, then,” he said, a little too lightly. “Once the bulk of the infantry got over the shock, it was right into anger and trying to scapegoat whoever they could. Smart Frumentarii were scarce for a while.”

“So you were in the thick of it.”

Marius snorted. “In my defense, I didn’t have any orders until Caesar finished knocking heads. The bastards found me.”

This was better. This was easy. “And what did you do? Throw bits of junk at them?” he said, with a nod at his back.

“Could have, eventually,” he said, reaching back. Rummaging in his bag, he came up with a few flat pieces of metal, the ring-end of a wrench still intact on one. “I’d been renting forge time from folks here and there. There’s a guy in Westside with a good setup, but I haven’t had the chance to stop in, since…” He shrugged.

Damianus took the knife blanks from him. All were unsharpened, and the handles were things like old files, pieces of rebar, and, yes, railroad spikes. “What’s this one?” he said, hefting one that looked oddly frayed.

“Steel cable,” Marius said, pointing at a twisted section in the hilt. “They didn’t have the right kind of flux, so I couldn’t get it to weld. They’re beautiful, properly finished. You’re supposed to use an acid treatment that makes them look like damascus.”

Damianus nodded like he knew what all that meant, passing the others back. “We’ve been through Westside a few times, and you didn’t mention.”

Marius shrugged as he put the knives away. “Didn’t seem important.”

“I won’t stop you, if we have the downtime,” Damianus said. He waved the imperfect knife blank at him. “You clearly need more practice.”

He huffed and muttered to Rex most of the way to Novac, put out. Damianus considered giving him a nudge and apologizing. IIt was still better work than he could have done, certainly, and more practical—and he’d seen what he could do in earnest, the machete at his side still cut from a Legion blade, but handsomely leaf-shaped and with a wicked point. Not that Damianus was envious of it, at all.

But when he looked over, ready to take it back, Marius was watching him sidelong, a grin in one corner of his mouth. 

***

Damianus had insisted on a stopoff in Novac, wanting a chance to clean up and prepare himself for their next trip to the Fort. Marius couldn’t disagree, completely, even if general hygiene standards in the Legion weren’t high enough to warrant it. But it paid to go into things prepared, so Marius left him with the shower running, and wandered down to the scavenger’s shop in the old gas station. There was a forge in the back of the work bay, and he got it heating as he cleaned debris off the anvil, people treating the chunk of I-beam as just another surface to pile things on.

An old woman was already there, looking over an engine with a scavenger he didn’t know. Marius gave a theatrical sigh as he moved a fistful of screwdrivers onto a workbench. “Daisy, are these yours? You know, if you want a reason to talk to me, you just have to ask.”

She laughed, a little wickedly. “You watch your mouth, young man,” she said with a wink. “Accuse a sweet old lady of _screwing_ with you…”

He groaned at the pun, and the scavenger stood awkwardly between them, still poking at the engine. “No, no. Leave that intact.” Daisy went back to instructing him, still smiling a little. “It’s worth more as a whole assembly…”

It paid to get to know people, even just enough to get names, and old ladies were generally thrilled to find some handsome scamp who made them feel young again. Part of his training—ingratiate yourself, make friends, so they didn’t suspect you when you stabbed them in the—

He fumbled a hammer as he picked it up, trying to round up the forge tools from where they had migrated, and his hand shook as he grabbed it off the floor. His grip on it was white-knuckled, and his stomach had dropped. Trying to get a hold of himself, he breathed deep, gathering up his tools.

“Still shaken up from earlier?”

He looked sharply over at Daisy, who had left the scavenger prying apart the engine. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t know where you were when it happened, but we had a Securitron come through, handing these out.” She passed him a piece of paper from the bag at her side. “And I’d bet my last bottlecap he didn’t roll over and kick off in his sleep.”

_Robert Edwin House, 261, President, CEO, and sole proprietor of the New Vegas Strip…_ He looked down at it, having to get a fair way in before he spotted the phrase _has died_. “Yeah,” he said, skimming the rest. “I heard people talking about it on the way here. Which side do you think did it?”

She shrugged. “Either one, from what I’ve heard. But whoever did it must have had a crack team, getting into that tower. Rumor has it it’s locked up tighter than a lakelurk’s…” She shot a glance at the scavenger. “Nose.”

“Daisy,” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “Sweet lady like you, swearing like a soldier.”

She put a finger to her lips, eyes sparkling, and waved away when he tried to give the paper back. “I don’t want it. Read it all the way down, and use it for firestarter for all I care. House had his day in the sun, and I think he’s no great loss.”

_Do you understand the regression you represent?_

Marius shuddered, but read over the obituary as he put the railroad spikes in the forge to heat. He frowned at it—he hadn’t heard anything so pompous since the Fort. Folding it up, he considered saving it for Damianus to read, and winced internally as he peeked at the last line again. _Who knows how many of them are even literate!_

He stuffed it in his pocket anyway. It should have made him feel better that Damianus had been right. Instead, he just felt guilty for doubting him—he’d done that long enough, over so many things, and he felt he ought to be better about trusting him.

He’d kept the picture Damianus had drawn of him. He wasn’t sure what else to do with it, for one, and for two, it made him feel… He didn’t like how it made him feel, because he _liked_ how it made him feel, and every now and then he’d look at the smeared charcoal and feel his stomach turn over in a way that wasn’t completely unpleasant.

So maybe he ought to do something nice in return?

He shoved one of the spikes to a cooler spot in the forge, and grabbed the other with the tongs. Hammer in his left, he laid it on the anvil and got to work, flattening and shaping it. Something about knives. He _remembered_ something about knives, but quite what, he wasn’t sure. But he did know Damianus liked them, and Marius liked making them, so…

Marius was sweaty and sooty by the time he trudged back to the motel. He had knocked the two railroad spikes into rough shape, and started grinding some of the better blanks to an edge—good progress for a couple hours, as much exhausting as soothing, and he had lost himself in the task. He was still wary about hanging around Westside too much, but the forge there was better equipped for…

He heard voices from their room as he came up the stairs, and slowed, treading lightly. As he passed the window, there was a sudden scramble from inside, and Marius rushed to the door. Who the hell was—

Damianus was the only person there, kneeling shamefaced in front of the television. At the floor at the foot of the bed, Rex sat up, a pillow falling away where it had been tucked against his side. Marius scanned the corners of the room again, then back to Damianus, and pointed at the television. “That thing doesn’t work?”

“No,” he said, his voice a little high.

He had his face turned away a little, and Marius could have sworn his eyes were wet. He narrowed his own. “I heard voices.”

“Been hitting the Stealth-Boys?” Damianus said, pushing up to his feet. He wrinkled his nose a little. “You smell like a dead Paladin.”

He turned away, and Marius discreetly pulled a bit of his shirt to his nose, taking a sniff. He wasn’t _that_ bad—well, okay, maybe his hands smelled like metal, and this shirt had developed a state of permanent grunge, which was why he wore it for dirty work. His head still down, his eye caught on the safe built into the television cabinet, the door ajar and a box visible inside. Glancing up, Damianus’ back was turned as he rummaged in the fridge. Shutting the door behind him, Marius stepped into the room, leaning to look inside the safe. “What’s _Love Sets Sail_?”

There was a _clonk_ from the fridge as Damianus dropped a full bottle of sarsaparilla, and Marius barely yanked his fingers clear of the safe door as it was slammed shut. Marius stood with his hands up, frozen, and Damianus stayed leaning with his hands on the safe, red all the way to his hairline. He didn’t seem to know what to do next, and Marius cleared his throat. “I have _never_ seen you move so—”

“Don’t tell anyone,” Damianus said, at the same time.

“I won’t,” Marius said, lowering his hands. “Is it a holotape? I’ve never seen a player that worked, how do you use it?”

He was just as red when he straightened up, not meeting Marius’ eyes. Damianus mumbled something that might have been, “Maybe later,” and went to retrieve the sarsaparilla.

“Okay?” He only knew a little about films on holotape—a performance that had been captured on the device, and could be replayed at will. But the title, the picture of a pretty woman and two men on the box… He knew what _books_ like that were, and he bit his lip a little, trying to keep his face neutral. And Damianus had been sitting with tears in his eyes.

Still fighting a grin, Marius took a breath to speak, but all he said was, “Are you done in the bathroom?”

Damianus looked back over his shoulder, apparently engrossed with a box of Insta Mash. He nodded, his expression unreadable, but Marius heard him let out a sigh of relief as the door shut. He _was_ in his rights to give Damianus no end of grief over it. Cheap romances were hardly appropriate fare for a Legionary.

The whole bathroom smelled like the soap that Damianus so carefully hoarded. Soap, romance tapes, cuddling up with the dog… He let himself smile in full as he peeled out of his dirty clothes.

He was actually rather sweet.

***

The walk to Cottonwood was subdued, Marius averting his eyes from the crosses as they approached, looking off to one side. A trio of slaves were being herded into a pen, and he winced, watching Damianus’ feet instead as they approached the ferry.

A few days ago, they had stood on this road, and he had asked Damianus to defect from the Legion. Because he was a coward. Because he couldn’t believe in what Caesar preached. Because he couldn’t stomach what was being asked of them. Because he was scared for his own skin, as well as Damianus’. And Damianus had refused, feeling whatever punishment Caesar had in store for him, up to and including execution, was just.

There was nothing redeemable about this place.

He looked up at Damianus long enough to follow him onto the ferry. They were the only two going to the Fort, once again, and the cursor pushed off from the dock, poling them upriver. The two of them settled cross-legged, ready to wait out the hours it would take to reach the Fort. He watched Damianus out of the corner of his eye, his face in its usual neutral frown, watching the far bank as they drifted away.

He, at least, didn’t seem bothered by it all. Romance holos, soap, cuddling the dog. Not flinching at slavery and the torturous death of crucifixion. He was a smart young man, who looked after the children who crossed his path, with more and gentler skills than he wanted to let on. He was a terror with a knife, lethal even faced with opponents who towered over him.

Chin in hand, Marius stared upriver while Damianus made polite conversation with the cursor, and wondered which of them had something wrong with him.

Marius dozed on the trip upriver, waking when Damianus shook his shoulder. He tried to stop his heart from pounding as he stood, stretching the ache in his legs, the vague impression of some bad dream fading as he walked. Damianus gave him a look with his eyebrow raised as they approached the Fort’s gate, and Marius waved a hand. “Leg fell asleep.”

He didn’t even shrug before he turned. Marius stayed in step, following him to the heart of the camp, the hill with Caesar’s tent. More crosses. More slaves. The same cold non-reaction from Damianus.

Or was Marius just too fragile to accept that it all had to be done?

A handful of men were going to and from the tents on the hilltop, mostly officers, men with no reason to stop them or question their approach, but enough that the two of them had to slow on the narrow path. Weaving his way through, Marius saw the cowl in the crowd before he saw the man wearing it. Reflexively, he sidled to Damianus’ other side, trying—and failing—to hide behind the smaller man.

“Caesar will debrief with you,” Vulpes Inculta said, gesturing to Damianus. “Continue on.”

Damianus looked back, a hand on the flap to Caesar’s tent. Marius kept his eyes ahead as Vulpes stepped between them. “You and I will have…a word, Frumentarius.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, as much reflex as trying to hide. Don’t flinch. Don’t stutter. Answer promptly. _Don’t let him know you’re scared…_

As one of Caesar’s generals, Vulpes had a tent on the crest of the hill. Marius followed him into it, stopping just inside as a pair of other Frumentarii were waved out by their leader. The tent flap fell shut behind them, and the only light was from gaps in the canvas and a pair of guttering fusion lanterns on a table.

“You are either lucky, or very _un_lucky,” Vulpes said. He stood with his arms folded, closer than the size of the tent warranted. “Our lord believes you represent nothing more than a discipline issue in the Frumentarii, and has delegated the case to me. Lucky, then, that you have not been resigned to summary execution.”

_Christ_ he always stood too close. Marius fought the urge to lean away or take a step back, already sweating with unease.

“Unless, perhaps, _I_ find some reason to execute you myself. And that would be very unlucky indeed.”

He forced himself to attend, fighting down his fear and discomfort. “You’ll find none, sir,” Marius said, voice far more level than he had anticipated. “What accusations have been brought to you?”

Vulpes tipped his head. “I am more interested in the defenses you have prepared.”

Shit. He hadn’t gotten this high on the food chain from being stupid. “For being out of camp alone at an unusual hour?” Marius focused on the lack of personal space, and managed to put a note of exasperation in his voice. “I was bringing urgent reports to the Fort. I couldn’t spare the time to wait for morning.”

“You were supposed to return to McCarran.”

It was like there was no air in the tent. “I am aware, sir. But these reports couldn’t wait, and passing them through our operative in McCarran would be unwieldy.”

“What reports?”

“Various. Observations from other Frumentarii. Reports on NCR movements. But most importantly, someone is spreading blatantly false information to the Rangers,” Marius said, polished. Some spy he would be, if he had just forgotten his cover. “Not one of our people, so I assumed we might have an ally. I was returning to get another agent involved, one who could infiltrate their organization, and—”

“Hardly urgent.”

“That was for my superiors to decide, the sooner the better.”

Vulpes shifted his weight, moving a blessed inch further away. Was it psychological warfare, or did the man just have no sense of— “And you were not able to leverage your placement in the NCR army?”

“No, sir, my post did not allow me discreet contact with the Rangers.” He steeled himself. Honestly might get him killed, but if Vulpes already knew and was waiting to hear it… “Also, as far as my contacts in the NCR know, Corporal Alex Rojas has been discharged. No longer part of their organization.”

“That was not authorized.” The tent should have been sweltering in the desert heat, and Marius could still feel sweat running down his back, but was suddenly, inexpressibly cold. Vulpes leaned close again. “Your orders were to remain a low-level, inconspicuous operative, wherever the Legion needed ground-level reconnaissance. Were you ordered otherwise?”

“No, sir. I—” The explanation died in his throat, at his superior’s expression.

“And if you could not infiltrate the Rangers, as you claim, tell me how you obtained this information in the first place.”

“There were rumors,” Marius had to unclench his jaw, to say it, but they came out calmly enough. “I had gained the trust of one of their radio operatives, and—”

_—He had flirted with her a little, enough to get a laugh when they first met, backed off enough she wouldn’t be uncomfortable when he hung around her station later on. She had been happy to talk to him, but all he could think was how he was using her trust, that if he had any mercy he would kill her first so she wouldn’t have to watch—_

Vulpes tipped his head to listen, and truth or not, Marius realized he’d stalled out, silent. He tried to pick up the thread again, defend himself, but Vulpes was leaning back on his heels, looking satisfied.

“I have little use for agents who do not follow orders.” Vulpes’ voice was quiet, easy, with all the smoothness of a sharp knife passing between ribs. “Or ones who believe they can conceal information from me. Well, Frumentarius, you have turned out—”

“Lucky for me to have around.” Marius didn’t take his eyes off Vulpes as the tent flap was pulled aside. Damianus stopped beside him, and even Vulpes took half a step back. “Alex Rojas is officially discharged, but if anything that has been an improvement in his cover, giving him free movement through the Mojave. Several NCR personnel we’ve encountered have known him, and we’ve been able to gain their trust more effectively.”

It took a moment for his surprise to fade, and actual anger was on Vulpes’ face. “You have no place here. I should have you flogged for—”

“I have orders directly from Caesar,” Damianus said. Marius saw him pale, then flush at interrupting a superior, who seemed nearly as shocked. “They involve further involvement with the NCR, and Marius has been nothing but useful in that role. We cannot spare a moment.”

He grabbed Marius by the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him along. Marius didn’t even think to salute, nearly falling out of the tent.

One last look back showed Vulpes Inculta staring after them, anger gone to cold calculation in their wake.


	4. Chapter 4

“Marius.”

“No.”

“I’m not holding the camera, look.”

“I _bet_ you aren’t,” Marius said, not looking away from his footing. “Are you watching for Fiends or what?”

“You’re no fun,” Damianus grumbled. “You’re going to get rad poisoning, too, and I’m not giving you any of my Rad Away.”

He wasn’t _wrong,_ probably. The old Poseidon gas station was a mess of leaking barrels, apparently enough to keep most scavengers at bay. Marius tested his weight on the crumbled paving as he picked his way towards a vehicle, left in the middle of the pools. “You’ll trade me a Rad Away if I find any good scav.”

“I can find my own garbage, thanks,” Damianus said, archly.

Marius held his breath as he stuck his head in the vehicle—from experience, the apocalypse hadn’t treated auto upholstery very kindly, nor did the things that tended to nest in it. But he was pleasantly surprised to find a couple rolls of duct tape, which he slid up onto his wrist, a tool box, and—

He turned around, holding up a slightly sun-scorched magazine. “It’s mine and you can’t—” _have it,_ he meant to finish, but was cut off by the flash of a camera. _”Goddamn it!_ I’m throwing it _and_ you into Lake Mead!”

“Aw, what would Michael Angelo say? His poor, expensive camera," Damianus said, backing away from the puddles. He snatched the paper that the camera spat out before Marius could grab it. He shook it out a little, and held it at arm’s length—farsighted, he’d admitted to Marius. “And you look so handsome when you smile.”

Marius tried to turn his double-take into a wary scan of the ruins. He wasn’t sure Damianus had noticed, still a little hidden by the camera, but the ear that he could see was red. “Whatever,” he said at last, stowing his finds. “Now put the stupid thing away, alright? We can’t collect bounty on _pictures.”_

They took a circling route towards Vault 3, skirting some kind of trailer fort to the south. They had dared make their way to the outskirts of Camp McCarran, and, not unusually for the NCR, wanted outside contractors to do their dirty work. Three Fiend leaders didn’t sound too difficult, despite what the major had said. Finding them, however…

“Look, they call him _Driver_ Nephi. That’s a putter.”

“What the heck do _you_ know about golf?”

Marius shrugged, spreading his arms wide. “More than you!” He let his arms fall, and Damianus rolled his eyes, moving on.

Neither was keen on diving into the ruined, crumbling maze that had once been South Vegas, and the shootout it would invite—and no Rex to watch their backs, left in Freeside to keep their hunt here discreet. So, they kept quartering the area, hoping to come across one of the Fiends fitting the major’s description, and doing their best to avoid the rest. There were enough to search through, and the two of them took a breather at midday. Damianus poked his head into a rough shelter made out of a freeway sign leaned against a semi trailer, beckoning Marius in after him.

“Here, you like garbage,” he said, kicking at some of the junk in the back of the shelter. Marius scowled, but accepted a few chunks of rebar that Damianus passed him. “Great. Now I get that magazine.”

“What? No,” Marius said, sitting on an overturned milk crate. He dug in his pack after something to eat. “That’s mine, these are a gift.”

“You are the very spirit of ingratitude,” Damianus said, sitting cross-legged beside the entrance. “See if I share with you again.”

Marius stuck his tongue out at him, before crunching at a bit of trail mix. He let his eyes wander, the inside of the shelter caked in layers of graffiti from Fiends and other travelers. He was puzzling out some of the more inventive spelling when Damianus spoke.

“You think the NCR would at least have _some_ idea of where they are,” Damianus said. He was sitting just out of the light from the entrance, looking at the ruined street beyond. “Though I suppose they don’t have the manpower to track them down, or they would have.”

Marius nodded, distracted by some of the rather wishful anatomy on the wall. “’Overstretched’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said. “And the replacement troops they’re getting in are so green you’d think they’re mutants.”

Damianus snorted. “Hence your promotion?”

“All it took was basic competence,” he said, shrugging. He found a cube of dried pear in the mix, and rolled it between his fingers. “You lied to Vulpes,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “You’re lucky he let you walk away.”

Damianus turned away a little, looking out at the ruins again. “It wasn’t really a _lie,”_ he said. “You _had_ been posing as Corporal Rojas.”

“But it _hasn’t_ been useful to us,” Marius said. Damianus had pulled the camera out of his pack to get to a box of mac and cheese, and Marius reached slowly for it. “Unless you count getting drunk with a few soldiers as infiltration.”

“Vulpes didn’t need to know that,” Damianus said, still scanning the ruins. He paused, almost glanced back as he said. “I said I’d have your back, and I meant it.”

Marius stared at the back of his head. He always had, even from the start, even when Marius had given him no reason to care, had given Damianus every reason to throw him to the wolves. Legionary or not, he was a better man than Marius.

_So tell him._

The thought put a soft feeling in his stomach, that was… If anything, it was dangerous. Damianus shifted his weight in the silence that followed, and finally muttered, “Vulpes is a creep, anyways.”

Marius swallowed. “Damianus?” he said, voice low. Panic set in as he looked over his shoulder, and Marius only got a glimpse of his face through the camera viewfinder before snapping a photo. He leaned back as Damianus lunged for the camera, shoving it at him as he held the picture away from him. “Payback’s fair play,” he said, shaking it out to help it develop.

Damianus sighed, but stowed the camera as he picked up his pack. “Throw it away if I look stupid?”

“Absolutely not,” Marius said, picking up his own gear. Damianus tried to catch a glimpse of the photo, and Marius angled it away as he got the strap on his pack untwisted. He let his head fall back with a sigh, ducking out of the shelter entrance.

Marius gave it another shake. The photo was still faint, the colors bleeding in slowly, but Damianus stared up at him from it. He looked… A little worried, honestly, a little hopeful, like he’d been waiting on an answer he didn’t think would come. It was almost embarrassing to see, when Damianus was usually so composed. Marius made to tuck it in his jacket pocket, and hesitated, looking at it again.

He’d looked right at _him_ with his guard down, utterly vulnerable.

Feeling like he’d trespassed somehow, Marius pocketed it. It didn’t seem right to toss it aside, even if it made him feel…

He didn’t want to name that feeling.

Damianus dropped into a crouch ahead of him, and Marius followed suit. He’d traded up from the service rifle to an assault carbine, at Damianus’ insistence, better to cover him when his eyesight kept him from using a firearm. He slung it down now, hearing the Fiends ahead catch sight of them—no scouting or avoiding this bunch, trying to pick out their marks.

Damianus waved for Marius to circle wide, and he nodded, keeping low behind a crumbling wall. After a day of picking them off, hunting the drug-addled bastards was almost boring—they had no tactics other than to charge head-on, occasionally having enough on the ball to try and flank the two of them.

One of these smarter ones had gotten his hands on a plasma rifle, sticking to the cover of a mostly intact stretch of concrete. Marius traded shots with him cautiously, knowing full well how much a plasma bolt hurt, holding his attention until Damianus vaulted the rubble behind him, machete raised.

Marius kept his head up a moment longer, listening, but the only other sound was Damianus picking over the Fiend’s weapon. He kept his rifle ready as he crossed the gap, finally slinging it as he leaned over the wall for a look at Damianus, crouched next to the corpse. “You’re injured.”

Damianus shrugged, one sided, sparing the gash on his left arm. “Healing powder,” he said, patting down his pockets.

“Needs a little more than healing powder,” Marius said.

He raised an eyebrow at him, and said pointedly, “Hydra?”

Marius gave a shrug of his own, more casual than he felt. “Nobody would know if you used a stimpak.”

A sharp look from Damianus, and he said with similar intensity, _”I_ would. And so would you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t rat you out for it. Are you saying you’d walk up to Caesar and confess it to his face?” Damianus didn’t look at him, pulling a ragged pouch of caps off the Fiend’s belt. Marius sighed. “I have some bitter drink, but at least wash it out? I almost got an infection just _looking_ at one of their knives.”

Damianus nodded. “I wouldn’t stop you, if you used one,” he said, a little subdued. Neither of them looked at each other as Marius handed him the bottle. “But that doesn’t mean someone else wouldn’t find out. Especially if you made it a habit.”

Marius tried not to sigh, and reluctantly returned the nod, remembering the last time they’d had this conversation. Damianus was right. Even out here it was better to stick to the things Caesar allowed, safer.

But his stupid mouth opened on its own. “So are you really trying to save my life, or do you think it’ll make me a better Legionary to get a case of lockjaw?”

Damianus drew back, hurt, and looked away as he tried to formulate a response. Marius grimaced at himself and drew a breath to apologize as the world exploded.

***

Damianus once stood in formation to repeat his oath for an hour. It was a group punishment, for what he couldn't even remember anymore, nor who'd earned it for them. Something something something, _numquam deserturos militiam nec mortem recusaturos pro Legio,_ they chanted. After dozens of repetitions the words weren't words, and they went on and on like that.

In the same way, when he'd heard enough of the gory noises a body could make as he broke it, the noises stopped meaning anything. They didn't turn his stomach anymore. He tuned them out.

It _did_ make his stomach twist when it was Marius’ skull cracking, specifically.

People talked about time slowing down but the trouble was how much _stuff_ filled that space. Everything liked to happen right now at once immediately—you had to be as fast to pick out what to react to first in the chaos and just move.

The Fiend lifted the pipe for another strike, but Marius was scrambling to right himself instead of fighting back. Pick a path and go: when the machete was not in Damianus’ hand after one blind reach, he eliminated it as one item to worry about.

No machete. Done.

And that left the Fiend and Marius; Damianus lunged forward and shoved Marius away. He heard him crumple but did not take his eyes off the weapon with his blood on it.

No Marius. Done.

And that left the Fiend: tall, wasting, and filthy. Wild-eyed behind broken goggles. He bared rotten teeth and carried through his swing at Damianus instead.

Smacking his palm up into the Fiend’s wrist halted the attack. He wrenched it aside and locked it, and punched for the man’s throat. One quick, hard jab with two knuckles, and that familiar gurgle of a windpipe collapsing.

He punched again for his nose and felt it pop under his fist. Blood squirted between his fingers.

The wrist in his hand stopped pushing back. The Fiend swayed on his feet.

Damianus gripped him by the strap of his helmet, and slammed his face into the rubble with his weight behind it.

Again. Again.

The wet, crunching noises he made as Damianus broke him were just noises.

No Fiend. Done.

He scanned around as he dropped the body aside but found no more incoming. There _could_ be more; if he and Marius were stupid enough to overlook the one, by his reckoning they were stupid enough to miss several. But more likely any stragglers would have joined the ambush when it looked like their comrade had gotten the drop. They tended to swarm like insects that way, but not half so clever or coordinated.

The only movement was Marius, floundering on the ground. Damianus glanced over at the sound of him shuffling about.

He was not back on his feet. He was not even climbing to his feet, just… moving, sort of aimlessly. Reaching towards his head; his hand weaved drunkenly toward it and never quite seemed to connect.

“Marius,” Damianus said, stepping over him. He meant it more like a question, but it came out like a command.

His eyes and hair were too dark, Damianus noted as he looked down at him, and it would have sounded idiotic to say it out loud. But his pupils were too big, was the thing. His hair was wet. Damianus knew what a concussion looked like—and felt like, for that matter. This looked…

“Marius,” he said more firmly, “tell me my name.”

Marius only gaped up at him. His mouth started to move, but nothing sensible came out. Inanely, Damianus thought that if Marius was confused, perhaps he chose the wrong question to help him unconfuse himself—_which_ name?

And then Marius’ eyes rolled back. He stopped moving.

Damianus lowered himself to the ground as quickly as he could, leaning his weight on the wall of rubble beside them to maneuver himself down. He smeared blood and dust on Marius’s skin when he touched his throat, feeling for a pulse.

_There._ Not dead.

But people covered in blood and losing consciousness could stop being _not dead_ fairly rapidly after that point. And healing powder did precious little for a caved skull.

Marius needed more than Damianus could give him, and soon. He had to take him to the Old Mormon Fort; the decision was made before it was a question. It was more a matter of how. You weren’t supposed to pick up someone who fell and could have a spinal injury, were you? He'd heard that, anyway.

Nothing for it, if that was the case or wasn’t; nothing _he_ could do for it regardless. They had to move.

Damianus clambered back to his feet, hastily gathered their weapons, and then gathered his Marius, slinging him across his shoulders.

It was all stupid. They were both idiots.

They should not have missed it. They should not have dropped their guard. Marius, especially, was an idiot.

That mantra in time with his footsteps kept his mind off the weight: Marius was, _step,_ is, _step,_ an idiot, _step._ Better than thinking _“Marius is heavy”_ or _“is Marius still breathing”_ because then he might have to stop, and he had a queasy sense of not having the time.

He wasn’t sure what the deadline was, but he felt there must be one. There was always something like a deadline. He hated not knowing the parameters.

And it was Marius’ stupid fault.

***

The ghoul caught him stumbling out of the surgery tent. He must have had a look, because she laughed at him.

"Squeamish?" she rasped.

He frowned and started to shake his head no, but then he paused. Nodded instead. _Sure._ That was fair.

He wasn't, really. By now he'd seen most of what was inside the human body in installments; he was confident enough in his numbness to it that he'd planted his feet and refused to leave Marius in the doctors' hands unsupervised. They'd relented to working around him.

That went fine until his… specific misgivings about damage to Marius' specific skull reasserted themselves. Because then someone took a drill to it.

It turned out that was his limit.

Damianus hastily limped farther from the surgery tent and over to the ghoul to get away from the noise. She was watching him with a lazy smirk. He gestured to her with two fingers to his lips, asking for a cigarette; if anyone around here was likely to have one, from a quick once-over he guessed it would be her.

She looked him over in turn, then shrugged and nodded. Hard to read, but he pinned what he thought might be a tiny bit of pity in her eyes. He didn't like the feeling that he was wearing something on his face he didn't know about. But if it got him what he wanted in the moment, he'd grit it out.

"Roscoe, I'm on break," she told another merc posted beside her, who nodded.

On the sidewalk just outside, she packed the cigarettes hard against the heel of her thumb while they both glanced up and down the street. No one skulking around in sight, at the moment. But it was Freeside. Dawn was coming on, so chances were the worst elements were turning in. But… _Freeside._

Damianus dropped his bag at his feet and leaned his back to the wall just the same.

"Julie's sweet, but she's got this look that puts the fear of God on you if she catches you smoking upwind of her patients," the ghoul told him conversationally as she held the pack out toward him.

He wasn't complaining. Out here with the gate shut, he couldn't hear the drill whining.

Even so his hands shook. He didn't like that. He hadn't noticed until holding a lighter steady was harder than it should be. The ghoul snatched it from him and held it up to his cigarette herself; she must have been half as agitated watching him struggle with it as he was.

He tensed, but he let it pass and accepted the help. Stupid thing to pick a fight over. Stupid time and place.

"You got a name?" she asked after a minute of smoking in silence. She tended to exhale out of the holes of her nose, which was… a whole image.

"Dixie," he managed. After a beat he thought to hold out his hand to be polite. He almost retracted it again when she just looked at it and snorted, but then she slapped her palm into it and gave it one tight shake before letting go.

"Beatrix," she told him. "And your boyfriend?"

"He's not my boyfriend," he said distractedly, trying not to wipe his palm off on his shirt. It would look bad—it was just that he was reminded now that it was red all over from dried blood. Maybe that was why she gave it a look.

Or it was the trembling.

"He's Alex," he added, pulling the nearest Western name that he knew Marius would answer to when he woke.

If he woke.

_When._

Damianus caught himself staring at the gate. He didn't know how this waiting around part went. Would someone come out to tell him? How long did it take to know?

"He'll be fine," Beatrix rattled. She was watching him out of the corner of her eye. "Probably. They know what they're doing.

"Which is trepanning, from the sound of things," she went on. "Buck wild, what counts as life-saving medicine when someone with a white coat and some book-learning does it. Folks like you and me do it, it's murder."

Damianus stared at her.

"I'm fucking with you. It's fine." She took another drag and squinted at him. "But go ahead and work yourself up if you got to; you blow a fuse in that little noggin and they can put you in your own bed, with some Julie-approved downers to occupy you while you wait."

He glared at a broken street light and sucked on his cigarette.

A minute passed, and Beatrix asked: "First time?"

Damianus raised an eyebrow at her, blowing out a stream of smoke. She jerked her head towards the gate. First time dealing with something like this, she meant. She must not have been enjoying his company much more than he was hers, but talking to people to kill time was a thing you just did now and then.

"No." He paused. "Yes."

She made a 'pfft' noise at him and gestured broadly in a way that said, _well? Which is it?_

He had to unclench his jaw and make the decision to form more words. Talking to kill time was a thing you just did now and then.

"It's not, uh—not the first time I've had a friend get… hurt." Shrugging reminded him his shoulders ached. "Just the first time I—"

He ran into that wall of knowing how he meant it in his head, but not how he meant to say it out loud to someone. It was the first time he knew about it before the outcome was decided. First time he had to wait to know.

He didn't know if he hated it more or less than finding out after the fact.

Beatrix nodded, relieving him of the obligation to finish whether she got it or not. They finished their smoke break in silence as the sun came up.

***

There was no sleeping, not really. Too many unfamiliar noises, and the chair was too uncomfortable. Still, he slouched down into it and put his head back to rest his eyes.

Someone in the next tent moaned in pain and kept him awake. Down the street two men shouted at each other and kept him awake. Across the courtyard a doctor yelled for assistance and kept him awake.

The doctor assigned to Marius sometimes came barging in with an urgency that said she had a number of other patients to check on, and that, too, kept him awake.

That she didn't care in the slightest made him a little more trusting when she brandished needles at Marius' body; he'd be wary if she tried to sneak by him.

Damianus watched her closely as she checked charts and drew medicines out of tiny bottles to jab them into Marius' arms while he slept. Once he pointed at the bottle in question, wanting clarification. Nerves.

"Levetiracetam," she rattled off, barely paying him any mind as she drew it into a syringe.

He blinked back.

Well. Nevermind that, then. He'd have to trust it was good for Marius—he knew where to find her if it wasn't.

At one point one of the staff brought him a bucket of water and a cloth to wash with. He appreciated the chance to clean up, and wiped the dirt and gore and the day-old sweat from what parts of him he cared to bare with doctors milling in and out and eyeing his damage. Every new face asked if he needed anything, until they all got the idea and stopped asking. 

What he personally needed from them began and ended with the clean gauze they gave him for the gash on his arm; healing powder would have to do for the rest.

Once, Beatrix poked her head in, tipping up her hat, and she asked if he wanted to join her for another smoke. He shook his head and gestured to Marius stretched out on the bed. Twelve hours in, and he had yet more waiting to do.

"They know how long he's liable to snooze like that?" she asked.

He shrugged. He was too tired. But she was asking, which was an effort, so he mustered an effort in turn.

"I'll give him up to eight days."

"Mighty specific. Got somewhere better to be?" Beatrix asked.

Technically, he had a lot of places he needed to be. And sooner than that. But he shook his head.

"It was enough for two bullets," Damianus told her. "It should be enough for one lead pipe. He has eight days."

She gave him the nod of someone who had no idea what he was rambling about but did not altogether care to ask. "Then what?"

He shrugged again. "I hit him myself."

***

Late at night, coming up on his first full day of waiting, someone else came, more furtive than the doctor or Beatrix.

He heard the footsteps as he leaned his head back and listened to the ambient noise. They shuffled towards his tent in the dark, barely loud enough to hear, quiet enough to signal that was on purpose.

Damianus tensed and focused in, but except to lift his feet off the edge of Marius' bed and plant them silently on the ground, he did not move. Not wanting to tip his hand, he cracked his eyes open barely enough to watch the tent flap inch aside.

He couldn't make out more than a crouched shape through the dark and his own eyelashes. It peered at him, and he breathed slow, deep breaths just in time with Marius'.

Satisfied, it hurried in before the mercs or the doctors could catch it skulking.

He kept up his sleeping act as it crept toward them. Better to see what the plan was now. Let it try now while he was… as alert as he could be, rather than scare it off and let it wait him out for another go when exhaustion took him.

With the brace off to relieve his bad leg while he waited, he would not be able to stand properly, but it didn't worry him. He'd positioned himself near enough to the bed there was no getting at Marius without getting in Damianus' reach, such as it was. All he needed was to land a solid first strike and it was over.

In the dim light that diffused through the canvas, without the floodlights behind her casting her in silhouette, Damianus could just make out a woman. Wasting thin one; taller than him, but he could touch fingers around her wrist and then some if he grabbed it. Her dark hair was a rat's nest.

She looked at Marius, and back at him, sunken-eyed and attentive. Then she looked at the pack at his feet.

Damianus watched her creep toward it, glancing between him and her prize. He scratched at his nose and made a cut-off snort, folded his arms again and settled lower in his chair, all of which she watched warily… then took the bait, assured he was deep asleep. After a few seconds fumbling with the catch on his bag she hadn't peeked at him again, so he opened his eyes fully to see better in the dark just what it was she was after.

His top two guesses were caps and chems, documents a distant third. Unlikely—the only people who'd pin him as having notes that interested them were the ones who could just ask—but he didn't rule it out.

Her bony hands shuffled carefully past his notebook. Checked the pocket he kept his charcoals in and left it. They tipped a box of chips and hesitated, then gently removed it from the bag and set it aside.

She was hungry. Enough to risk the end of Beatrix's magnum for trouble-making, just to investigate someone carrying a full pack into the clinic.

Did they not have enough to feed their patients properly? Maybe not. Medicine was top priority, and the mutterings he caught from the staff suggested they barely had the means even for that.

As he watched, she found the pouch that held his caps and teased it gently out. They shifted and rattled inside, and she looked up quickly at him, and froze.

They stared at each other for a moment. She glanced to Marius as if expecting him to be awake too, waiting in ambush, but he breathed steadily on.

She looked back at Damianus. Her face was haunted; he suspected a chem problem brought her here, but he wasn't a doctor. He felt confident in it though, haggard and thin as she was, and a sneak-thief digging through other patients' things in the night. There was a bare desperation to her that he associated with the dregs of Freeside's little society: the chem junkies, the degenerates, the beggars, the prostitutes turned out even by the Garretts.

But even with the word "degenerate" floating through his head, when it came down to it… he couldn't hate her for just being hopeless and hungry. 

The woman unfroze herself and dropped his belongings, launched to her feet to run. Damianus caught her by the wrist and pinned her in place. He was correct about how thin it was in his hand.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed, tugging with all her might against his grip. Even tired, he was a great deal stronger than her. Holding her fast wasn't much work. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Hush," he hissed. It came out gruffer than he'd intended, but he was tired. It shut her up, anyway.

Damianus nodded to the pouch of caps she'd been after. "Pour out half."

She stared at him. Her eyes were terrified and confused; she kept tugging weakly at her wrist.

"Pour out half," he repeated. "Into the pack. Take the rest. Don't return."

She stared at him still, and he stared back, waiting. He tried not to scowl, but it was hard.

Finally she nodded, and he released her. She hesitated a moment, clearly weighing the option of turning and running now that she was free, but then she bent back down and picked up his pouch of caps. She kept looking up at him every other second as she did, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her hands shook as she snapped the pouch clasp open and rattled a measure of caps into his pack as instructed.

Damianus didn't particularly care about the money. There was little he needed that he couldn't obtain one way or another. He just didn't want to be empty handed if the Followers couldn't afford to keep giving Marius medicine pro bono.

When about half the pouch was emptied, the woman looked at him again. He hated the familiarity of the expression. It was a look that said_ are you done with me_ without daring to hope the answer was yes.

He pointed to the box of chips, then at her. After a moment's hesitation, she picked them up too, and clutched them to her chest with the pouch of caps.

Damianus pointed to the tent flap. She was gone a moment later.

***

"Do you see this?" Damianus asked, holding up his straight razor.

Marius, of course, remained unresponsive. The impertinent slouch.

Damianus waved it over his sleeping face menacingly. "You'll get well acquainted if you don't wake up soon."

He'd look unhinged if the doctor came by, threatening an unconscious man with a razor. But he was in the right place for cracking. Really, he was bored and anxious, which was a terrible combination. All he could do was wait—nearly 36 hours now, but who was counting?

He was. He was counting.

The incessant worry had a way of making him feel every second ticking by. He kept checking the Pip-Boy just to know how much time had passed since the last time he'd thought about it. Which was usually five minutes.

"I'll finish what they started with your hair in the surgery," he told Marius, sitting back in his seat. He gestured one more time with the razor before surreptitiously tucking it back into his pack before anyone saw it.

Julie had politely—but firmly—confiscated his butterfly knife when someone complained of him toying with it to pass the time.

"Today is your last free day. Starting tomorrow, every day you spend lazing around, I'll shave another patch of your pretty girl-hair." Damianus ruffled a hand over the faint stubble on his own scalp. "We'll get you nice and uniform, one strip at a time. Don't think I won't."

He was almost too tired to speak, but the silence was from Marius was maddening. In 36 hours Damianus had managed to rest only four and one half by his own count.

At one point he had briefly entertained the idea of shoving the lazy bastard over a bit and getting a bit of sleep on the edge of his bed. He’d shared closer sleeping arrangements with men, but there was…

It was a matter of...

The problem was that the same thing that would have been fine with the men he grew up with was not fine here; you had to shore up boundaries differently when the relationship was different. They were his brothers. Marius was—

It was different when... when weird feelings got involved. Marius was—

Impropriety was a factor.

So he'd stretched out on the dirt for a while, managed an hour and a half of sleep, reminding himself that that should be good enough for him. It didn't do to get spoiled and soft by the hotel living he’d been doing. Had to get up and out from underfoot when the doctor came in again and reminded him pointedly about the empty mattresses in the next tent. He wasn't quite that desperate yet; he didn't want to not be here if Marius woke.

_When._

The rest of the time he filled out with sketching, though he only had the one, pathetic subject. He tried to do push-ups, feeling like he ought to be productive, but he found he was too exhausted for it and gave up after twenty.

He could use another cigarette, or something to do, or a proper nap. But most of that would require leaving Marius. He was tethered to the idiot.

Be nice if he could actually blame him, but he couldn’t make himself be angry. If anything it was Damianus’ fault they were here. He just wished Marius would wake up.

This did not mean he was above heckling him, whether he could defend himself or not.

“I’d think you were just pretending so you could weasel out of having to do anything,” he said, lifting one foot onto the bed to nudge Marius’ shoulder. “If it weren’t for all the needles. Frail and delicate as you are. You couldn’t play dead with the needles.”

He gave him another nudge. Marius’ head lolled on the dingy pillow, but he didn’t stir. Damianus quit pushing at him when he considered that he probably shouldn’t go rolling him around with a head full of stitches.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to take that machete,” Damianus mused out loud. “This whole fiasco? You’ve un-earned it. You know? And I saved your life, too, so by rights it's mine now anyway. Since you’re unfit. It’s a fine piece, deserves to be wielded by a _real_ man.”

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes again.

He cracked an eye open and looked once more at Marius.

“I’m only joking,” he said, quieter. “Just so you know. This is the part where you wake up and say something like—about how I'm too child-size to be a real man, or something.”

Marius, of course, did not say that.

Damianus sighed out of his nose and closed his eyes again, arms folded over his chest. Seven more days, he’d give him. He wasn’t sure what he was really going to do after that; he didn’t want to plan for it. Soft of him, not wanting to strike out on his own again now he’d gotten used to having Marius around. Now he’d gotten soft on him—

He just liked things as they were. He didn’t want to go it alone again.

He checked the time on his Pip-Boy. Five minutes.

Maybe he should just stop looking, relax, try and sleep again. He took a few long, deep breaths and listened to the irregular rhythm of Freeside’s bustle. Time stretched out forever, and he resisted looking at the Pip-Boy again. A winter breeze picked up and came through the open tent-flap, stirred the heat that built up with the sun baking outside it, and that was nice enough he felt muscles relaxing he hadn’t noticed were tensed.

He was wavering in and out right on the edge of sleep when he realized he'd been hearing a stirring next to him that wasn't the tent canvas for a minute. Damianus cracked his eyes open and looked down, half expecting the sneak-thief to have returned, bolder for the mercy. No one was crouched at his pack this time.

The soft scuff of cloth against cloth was coming from the bed.

***

There was a light ahead. Marius blinked at it, and his heart started hammering against the inside of his ribs—this was it, this was the light they talked about, that you saw when you died. He wasn’t ready, he didn’t want to die, he had so much he wanted to…

He twisted away from it, trying to keep from falling forward. There was a child’s voice calling from it. Someone familiar? They were calling him to the next world on, telling him—

“We’ve got stuff we aren’t even allowed to sell, people! Only at Mick and Ralph’s!”

Marius stopped fighting. That didn’t belong in any reasonable afterlife.

He raised a hand, holding back the sun as it streamed through a tear in the top of the tent. His head ached down into his neck and shoulders, and he shut his eyes to listen. People talking, a child crying, odd echoes off heavy walls in…Freeside? The Old Mormon Fort? He remembered ruins, a camera. Hunting Fiends with Damianus—_Where was Damianus—?_

The pain in his head warned him off of sitting up, and Marius slowly turned his head on the pillow. Blank canvas on one side, the tent opening on the other—and next to the bed was Damianus, slouched in a rusty folding chair, arms crossed, head lolling as he dozed. He’d cleaned the blood off himself, but he still wore the same shirt, more rumpled and lived-in than it had been. The wound on his arm was bandaged, the yellowish stain of healing powder seeping through.

Marius lowered his arm, feeling for his head. “I wouldn’t,” Damianus mumbled, sitting up more. There were dark circles under his eyes as he looked down at him. “They took out a piece of your skull.”

Still feeling slow and thick, all Marius could ask was, “Did you keep it?”

Damianus opened his mouth, shut it again. “They put it back.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They looked at each other a long moment, the sounds of the Followers’ camp around them filling the space. Bits and pieces of what had happened came drifting back as Marius stared, and Damianus just let him. Marius blinked, meeting his eyes as a question formed, and abruptly forgot it at the look on his face. “You’ve been asleep more than a day,” Damianus said.

Marius let his head loll back, resting a hand over his eyes and blocking the sun. He sounded… 

Scared. Relieved. That and a dozen other emotions, rolled into one, more than Marius could stop and pick apart. He rubbed at his eyes a moment. There had been… He remembered a glimpse of a Fiend as he fell, and then just darkness, and a sense of weight and floating all at once. “Did I walk here?” Marius said, lowering his hand.

Damianus shook his head a little, with a look like it was a stupid question. “No.”

He rubbed at his eyes again. It probably _was_ a stupid question, but it meant…

Marius reached out with his free hand, palm up. After a moment, he felt Damianus cover it with his own, giving it a brief squeeze. He tugged it away, and Marius had to make himself let go, looking up at him. “Are you alright?”

He smiled, whole demeanor shifting for just a flash. “Fine.”

“What happened while I was out?” Marius asked, shifting his face out of the sun. Damianus sat forward, and Marius just took him in as he talked, voice low and quiet.


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re _sure_ you don’t need to be laying down.”

“Yes, _mom.”_ Marius pulled the hood on his jacket lower anyway. The sun was making him nauseous, on top of the spike that seemed to have been hammered in above his right eye. “Thank you. I’m fine.”

“Don’t…” Damianus waved his hands a little, making a face. ”If you’re well enough to make fun of me, you’re well enough to follow. It’s not like you got _shot_ in the head or anything, you big baby.”

Marius glowered at his back as he headed through Camp McCarran’s gates. He would be better off somewhere dark and quiet, honestly. But after he woke, Damianus had fussed over his well-being to the point that Marius had declared himself ready to move on, despite the doctors’ misgivings. Better he suffered than putting up with that much solicitousness. ‘Uncomfortable’ hadn’t begun to cover it.

Mostly because he realized seeing Damianus so concerned made him feel… It was better he didn’t think about how it made him feel.

Which left him standing on the grounds of the NCR’s headquarters in the Mojave, sun beating down as Damianus turned in the head of the last Fiend leader, trying to pick out the nearest spot he could go puke without drawing too much attention.

The Major passed Damianus a bag of caps and shook his hand, flies still buzzing at the bundle sitting on the tarmac. He gave Marius a sidelong look as he turned away, leading them towards the old airport’s terminal building. “You remember where his office is?”

“Yes. It’s not like I got _shot in the head,”_ Marius said. He immediately sighed, rubbing between his eyes. “Sorry. Maybe I should just sit a while…”

Damianus said nothing as he pushed open the terminal doors, and Marius mentally kicked himself. A couple troopers eyeballed Rex from behind a short wall of sandbags, a set floodlights on either side, but didn’t comment as they wandered past. The terminal was cool, at least, and the skylights dingy enough to keep it comfortably dim, and Marius pulled his hood down. With a gesture, Damianus indicated for him to lead, and Marius took them on a slightly meandering path towards some of the first-level offices.

He realized after a moment that his footsteps had trailed off, and Marius turned back. Damianus was staring up at the device suspended from the ceiling, backlit against the skylight. He raised a hand, tracing the outline like he was trying to memorize the shape. “A fighter jet,” Damianus said, delighted even as he kept his voice down. “There were a few back at—home.” _White Sands,_ he meant, a damning place to be familiar with where the NCR could hear. “We scrapped most of them, but…”

“You want to sit a minute?” Marius said, seeing him pat at the pocket he kept his glasses in. “I wouldn’t mind a break.”

Damianus wavered, almost reaching to take off his pack before standing more alert. Marius caught the flash off the approaching man’s beret and straightened up reflexively.

“You must be the contractors Major Dhatri was telling me about,” he said. “Mr. Greene, isn’t it? And _Mr._ Rojas. Any intention of joining us again?”

“Captain Curtis,” Marius said, with a nod instead of a salute. His stomach was doing cartwheels. “For now, I’ll be what help I can, sir.”

Curtis gave him slightly too long a look before turning back to Damianus. “The major has had only good things to say about you,” he said, waving for him to follow. “If I could have a moment of your time, there are some tasks outside my company’s scope…”

Damianus shot Marius a look, but the captain was sweeping him along into his office, giving no space for him to join them. Marius shrugged, and when the door closed, patted his leg for Rex to follow as he went to find a seat along the wall. He rested his head back on the blessedly cool concrete and shut his eyes, listening to Rex sniff around.

Curtis had never been his superior, as far as the NCR’s records went. Nor even in the Legion, in so many words—but Marius had handed the occasional report up the line to him, and the captain had pulled strings to put him where he would be most useful, when he could manage. He had made sure he was one of the troopers sent to Nelson, at the last, with orders of sabotage, of intercepting orders and messages, of being being the only ‘survivor’ of the rout, left to stumble back here and bring word to the colonel…

He found himself staring at the ceiling. Had Vulpes passed word to him? Did he suspect on his own? If Marius got the chance, he could bluff, say he’d gotten new orders from Dead Sea that kept him from returning. His head throbbed as he sat forward—he hadn’t told Damianus any of this, they should have worked out a story…

Rex came up to snuffle at him, and Marius didn’t reach out, head in hands, waiting for the pain to subside. The Followers had said it was normal, after an injury like his. If he was lucky the headaches would stop in a few weeks—but with the way his luck was falling these days, Marius just clenched his metaphorical teeth and resigned himself to it.

“You lose a bet or something?”

Marius blinked, sitting up. A woman in NCR fatigues was leaning over him, a concerned look on her face. “Private Reed? We met at the 188?” she said. “You look like crap, if I can say so. And it’s not just the haircut.”

“Yeah, it’s uh…” The words got muddled on the way to his mouth, and he turned his head, pointing to the stitches in his scalp. They had wrenched a favor out of some of the lower-ranking Kings to even out the spots the Followers had cut, and Marius had wound up shaved on every side of his head, leaving a long patch on the crown. Damianus had stared at him so long, and with such an unreadable expression, Marius was sure he looked like a dolt. “Not by choice,” he managed at last. “Fiend with a lead pipe.”

Reed hissed a little as she sat down, two spaces over. “Well, it’s, uh… Stylish,” she said, her tone unconvincing. Marius raised his eyebrows at her, and she shrugged. She was a blunt sort of woman, crooked-nosed and built like a brawler, her own hair buzzed down under her helmet. “You seen Perez around? He was worried about you, last time.”

“Haven’t seen him,” Marius said, slouching back in the chair. “We’re just in to look after some contracting work, today. Haven’t had a chance to play tourist.”

“Well, he’s in Forlorn Hope now, I just figured you guys tended to wander. You and, uh…” She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Dixon.”

“Dixie.”

“Close enough.”

He shrugged back at her, unconcerned. Rex was sniffing at her boots, and she held out a hand, waiting for him to process the smells on her glove before scratching his neck. “He still acts like a normal dog. Weird. Where did you get him?”

“He’s on loan from a friend,” Marius said. “Good to have an extra set of eyes and ears out in the wastes.”

“I bet,” Reed said, still working her fingers through his fur. Rex’s tongue lolled. “You been upstairs yet?” At his negative, she jerked her head at the stairs. “If you’re looking for work, have a word with Lieutenant Boyd. You wouldn’t believe what she’s got going on up there. We actually _captured_ a Legion centurion.”

Was his headache _that_ bad, making him mishear things? “Say that again?”

“Yeah!” Reed sat forward, letting Rex go. “They brought in a goddamn centurion without a scratch, but the asshole won’t talk. I normally wouldn’t…” She waved a hand at the world at large. “But Carrie’s at the end of her rope and looking to get some folks from outside the Army involved. Thought I’d give you a heads-up, since, uh… Sounds like you could get some back against these bastards. You didn’t hear it from me, though.”

Marius swallowed. “We’ll look into it,” he said, feeling ill again. “Thanks for the tip. Say hello to Perez for me, if you get the chance.”

She snorted. “Hell, I’m stuck here. Sexist bullshit,” she trailed off, muttering. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

The door to Curtis’ office opened, and Marius wavered as he stood. He traded a nod with Reed, and she gave Rex one last pat before moving on.

Damianus led them almost directly out of McCarran, taking a short tour through the terminal’s main level to keep from looking rushed. Marius was about ready to keel over by the time they left, and Damianus was giving him that sidelong look again. “Do you want to spend the night in Vegas?”

A sarcastic _Are you coming on to me?_ got turned into a grunt. “We can camp outside Nellis somewhere.”

“Sure.” Damianus didn’t sound convinced, but kept walking, turning to keep up a casual scan of the ruins. Marius joined in as best he could, the sorry reminder of his injury still making him queasy. “Did you listen in on anything he was saying?”

“Nope. I’m just _Mr._ Rojas now, I’d hate to get caught lingering at his door.” Marius perked up at something moving next to a building. Rex growled, and a stray dog flattened its ears back before slinking off. “Did I come up?”

“The world doesn’t revolve around you, if you can believe it,” Damianus said. “No, but he seemed suspicious enough that I’d keep your nose clean around him. He’s got a few tasks for us, assisting with those might help your credibility.”

“The centurion upstairs?” Damianus turned to look at him, but Marius didn’t have the energy to look smug. He twiddled a finger in the air. “Point for Rojas. Curtis wants him freed?”

“Killed,” Damianus said, turning back. “He’s got plans for McCarran, and coward that Silus is, he’s worried he’ll talk when he realizes the number of Legion agents there are on base. He’s a centurion, he knows what Caesars orders would be if any of us got the chance, so Curtis wants him out of the picture before he figures out how deep he’s in it.”

Marius watched him a moment, apparently at ease with the thought of an assassination. A traitor, a prisoner, another Legionary…

“After that, there’s a big op that he wouldn’t let me in on until things were ready. Some major sabotage,” Damianus said. “He wants us to stall a while before coming back through, so Silus can’t be pinned on him. May as well deal with the Boomers in the meantime.”

“Right,” Marius said, unable to summon up much enthusiasm. “Explosions. Loud noises. Looking forward to it.”

“Does your head still hurt?” Damianus asked. At Marius’ withering look, he sighed. “Jeez, you’re just going to keep making both of us miserable.”

Another sharp reply was lining itself up, but Marius bit down on it, deflating a little. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m being an ass. Not at my best when I hurt.”

The look Damianus gave him was too full of frank surprise to be faked, but he smoothed it quickly over. “Most people aren’t.” He glanced at the ruins around them one last time for threats, then made a beckoning motion. “Give me your hand.”

“What?” Marius drew away.

“Just—” Damianus grabbed his left wrist, and Marius nearly fell over, stumbling at the touch. “It’s a—a sort of trick, that you…” He pinched firmly at the palm of Marius’ hand, between the thumb and forefinger. “Something about the nerves.”

Marius couldn’t reply, standing there aghast at him just _grabbing_ at him, and…

Damianus was cradling his hand in his left, and holding that firm, deep pressure with the other. It made his jaw go slack, put a soft feeling in his belly that was—was—

“Did that help?” Damianus let go, looking a little eagerly at him.

_Maybe?_ “No,” Marius said, and screamed silently at himself. “Try the other one?”

“Might have had the wrong spot,” he muttered, taking his other hand. The skin on the back of Marius’ neck prickled, and he tried to keep his eyes open. Damianus was massaging the spot slowly this time, pinching just shy of being painful, and Marius’ brain gave up entirely. “There? You can do it yourself, if it’s working.”

It might have been working, or it might have been the feeling of his fingertips brushing the back of Damianus’ knuckles blocking out any other sensation, or the soft-strong feeling of his hand curled around his. “Yeah, it’s…” Marius fought to string words together. “That’s better.”

“Good.” Damianus looked up—and dropped his hand like it was a live scorpion, turning abruptly up the road. “And if it isn’t you can just suffer.”

His ears were bright red, and Marius felt a shameful flush creep up his neck. It was just a touch, but it had been a while—a _long_ while—since he’d had a chance to let anyone in that close. And it wasn’t that he was attracted to Damianus. Sure, he was a—a good looking young man, objectively, it would be stupid to call him unattractive even with his scars, anyone might have said so. And he’d been friendly enough with him, but that was just good manners, working together towards a goal, and not…

Marius felt his face get hotter. _You’ve just been alone too long,_ he repeated to himself, over and over. _You’d have a crush on anyone who spent more than an hour with you, at this point. There’s nothing personal here._

Good. Logical. Didn’t need the word ‘crush’, but that was fine, since he _didn’t have one._ Stop there, don’t take the next step and think—

_You don’t even know if he likes men._

Marius dropped back, biting a knuckle to keep from yelling at himself aloud.

***

The view from Nellis’ solar array wasn’t the most picturesque, the dead flat airfield stretching off in every direction, but it was hard for Marius to not stare back towards the hangars. A few people in blue suits had lined up, and there was a flash of binoculars being passed hand-to-hand. He fought the urge to wave.

“If you’re done posing?” Damianus said politely, hefting his armful of cables. Marius selected one, and brushed dust off the connection, before reattaching it to the underside of the solar panel. “Honestly, you’re showing off enough by fixing these, you don’t have to make them all fall in love with you too.”

Tightening the collar on the cable, Marius’ wrench slipped, and he swore as he banged his knuckles on the panel support. “Are you kidding? Their master-at-arms looked ready to marry you on the spot for surviving the bombardment. I’m shocked they even let me close.”

“Their master-at-arms was ready to strap me to a rocket and send me back to Vegas.” Damianus stood with him, shuffling along behind to the next panel.

“I never said she’d be cuddly about it. She seems like the tough-love type.” Marius squinted at the underside of the solar, wiggled the cables, and moved on to the next. “Mother Pearl, now…”

“Mother Pearl is a respected elder,” Damianus said, warning in his voice.

“She winked at you.”

“It was at _you_ and your pretty _girl_ hair.”

Marius snorted. “Do you even like women?” Damianus didn’t reply, and Marius kept his head down, checking the next cable for flaws as an excuse. You couldn’t just ask someone that, especially couldn’t ask a _Legionary_ that. What the hell had _possessed_ him to—

“I mean… Yes, but…” Damianus was bright red, with more than the noon sun. “I’ve never, uh…”

“Yeah,” Marius said. He chewed the inside of his lip a moment, groping after words. “They’re all either terrified of you, or would want you dead if they knew your real name.”

“Pretty much,” Damianus said, sounding relieved. “It’s just…just not worth it. Not right.”

“Hmm.” _Stop,_ idiot. Marius hooked up the next cable, not looking until he could glance up at Damianus discreetly. He was shading his eyes, looking back at the curious Boomers. “So, Pearl watching?”

Damianus gave the hangar a more critical look. “Would they notice if I pushed you off the roof?”

“Yes, and we’d just be back to square one, as ‘savages’ again,” Marius said.

“Maybe so.” Damianus dropped the pile of cables when they hit the end of the row. “Ready to fire it up yet?”

“Not quite. There’s a couple of these cracked that I want to swap out,” Marius said. Damianus sighed, and Marius tried his best holier-than-thou expression. “Now, Dixie, we’re supposed to be winning these nice people over for Caesar.”

It was supposed to be a joke, but something in it was… Too true, perhaps. Damianus shrugged and sat on the edge of the roof, pulling out his butterfly knife. Marius kept at the panels, losing himself in the work of removing good panels from bad stands, and the other way around.

He could press it. He hadn’t, in a while, and Damianus was in a good enough mood. The Boomers had munitions that would put the Brotherhood of Steel to shame, but they weren’t any stranger than most tribes he had met. Trigger-happy in a way that made him scared to put a foot wrong, yes, but only to defend themselves. They had a culture, a history, stories…

And they didn’t deserve to have that stripped away, when Caesar marched on this desert.

The sound of the butterfly knife whirring and clicking against Damianus’ hands had stopped. Marius looked back over his shoulder, only to immediately hold up a hand. “Don’t you _dare!”_

“What?” Damianus held up the camera, studying it like it like some delicate artifact—which it was, honestly. “It’s not going to hurt you. Besides, we ought to immortalize that hair.”

“God, I should have just shaved all of it, I don’t care if we’d match,” Marius said. “No photos until it grows out.”

“It’s longer than it was yesterday.”

“Have you ever tried shaving your own—” Marius caught himself, holding up a finger. “I’ve got enough wounds in my scalp right now.”

He was raising the camera, ever so slightly. “In your ego, too.”

“Haven’t got one of those.”

Damianus burst out laughing, and Marius couldn’t help but join in. He wrinkled his nose, but held still as the shutter clicked. “There. Happy? Am I gonna have to burn it?”

“I’ll give it to Mother Pearl,” Damianus said, waving it around. The motion slowed as he looked at him. “It doesn’t…_actually_ bother you? The photos?”

Marius cocked his head at him. “No,” he said at last, surprised to learn he meant it. “No, it doesn’t—”

The shutter clicked again. Marius tossed a wrench at him, which Damianus caught. He shook his head as he got back to work. He was a little shit sometimes, childish, but he was… He was fun. Marius’ hands slowed. They were both having fun—neither of them had had enough time to _be_ children, Damianus even less so, making moments like this…

He liked Damianus’ company, and was going to miss him when they had to part ways.

Looking back, Damianus was trying to line up a shot with the Nellis control tower, squinting into the viewfinder. Marius turned back to the broken solar panel, distracted as he cranked at the rusted bolts.

Friends, brothers, were one thing. The Legion tried to force that on its men, to make them willing to die for one another. It would also want them killed, for taking it a single step further.

Marius looked over again. Damianus was leaning over the hatch of the roof access, making kissy noises at Rex.

Well, Marius was already a piss-poor Legionary, with one foot out the door. The trick would be in getting Damianus to follow.

***

"How _is_ this thing supposed to work? I don't trust it." Damianus glanced up from the Pip-Boy map to see Marius turning the rebreather over in his hands. They'd paused to sit and rest, side by side in the shade beside an abandoned shack, partway down the route from Nellis to Calville Bay.

A sickly brahmin calf grazed on banana yucca not far away, and Rex looked up from his resting spot near Marius to watch it whenever it wandered about—maybe the shepherd instincts kicking in.

"Why are you asking me?" Damianus looked at the mask, popping another potato chip in his mouth with his free hand. As far as he could tell it looked like a modified respirator, if only because that was his nearest frame of reference. It also looked nothing at all like a respirator. "All I know is your alternative would be holding your breath and watching out for lakelurks while I pray for you from the safety of the docks."

Marius huffed out a laugh through his nose and gave him a Look, then took a chip when Damianus held the box toward him. "I might take the prayers anyway," he said while chewing, turning his attention back to the mask. "There’s no air tank, I’ll probably be holding my breath whether I’m wearing it or not."

"Use your chest and take a big man breath," Damianus said, puffing up to demonstrate and earning a snort. "I'm willing to trust Loyal and Jack with your life."

"The senile old nut and the peeping Tom? Sure, between the two of them there's got to be most of one competent adult." Marius set the rebreather on his knees and leaned to reach into his pack nearby, then paused to squint back at Damianus with a frown. "Why is it _my_ life, anyway? Where was I when we decided that?"

"It was while you were hunting for a teddy bear for three hours. I drew straws for you."

"Oh, of course. _I'm_ the short straw," he told Rex pointedly as he continued to reach into his bag. Rex looked back at him, wagging his tail in the hope that being addressed meant getting a scratch or two.

It did, in the end. Neither of them could say no to the tail.

"Harr harr." Damianus looked back to his map and zoomed out on Highway 165. Bitter Springs wasn't too far north of the route they'd be taking; he'd heard they'd spotted cazadores off the road south of there, probably nesting nearby. Wasn't looking forward to that. "You're not the tall one in any company but mine, Big Man."

Marius didn't say anything to that. When Damianus looked his way again he was distracted, with a set of tools laid out on his thigh and a flathead screwdriver in hand prizing carefully at… something, on the rebreather. 

"If you take that apart and can't put it together again, I'm not responsible for your drowning," Damianus scolded.

"I can put it back together," he said, looking offended that Damianus would doubt him.

"Always messing about with something." Marius didn't seem in a rush to pull the whole thing apart; he only prized open the canister on the back that the tubing fed into, and peeked inside.

"You're good at it," Damianus conceded after a moment. Speaking generally, even if he wasn't messing about too much at the moment; Damianus had watched him make and repair things, always with a sure hand.

Teasing aside he felt like he should tell him he was good at it. He should know he thought so. 

Marius glanced up, and gave him a little shrug and half of a smirk. Pleased with himself, the preening bastard.

"You know a lot about tech?" Damianus tried.

He winced a little as he said it, because it sounded like a loaded question, all things considered. But he didn't get a wary look for it, at least.

No; mostly Marius looked like he was trying too hard to look humble as he answered: "I know enough to get by on my own—keep my gear repaired and make the tools I need. The rest isn't hard to figure out once you see how the parts fit together."

Damianus leaned over to take a look when Marius turned the thing towards him to show its plastic and metal guts. He could gather more form and function from a child's drawings in the margins of his sketchbook.

"Just looks like a headache."

"Most things aren't as complicated as they look if you screw around with them enough," Marius told him, putting the canister back together.

"So you just screw around a lot."

Marius puffed out a laugh, not looking at him. "That's my calling, then. Screwing around with things." After a moment he added: "Mending."

There was something in the way he said it. One of those heavy little things, he got the feeling. But he didn't elaborate, and Damianus didn't pry.

He watched Marius put his tools away again, munching absently on his chips—the box set down between them to share—and thinking of a change of subject.

"They seem to know what they're doing, is all I meant earlier," he said at last. "The Boomers. I'm willing to trust their work. The thing with the… the noise, that killed the ants. That was good."

Marius' eyebrows approached his hairline in a non-committal _'if you say so'_ kind of look as he put the kit back in his bag and fished out a canteen instead. "Yeah. Call me crazy, I still hesitate to trust my life to these guys. They’re not bad people, but they’re foaming at the mouth to bomb anything in sight of Nellis."

He unscrewed the cap and took a sip, then frowned at the middle distance. "They had ordnance like that at White Sands, didn't they?" He looked to Damianus "It was a test range before the war?"

Damianus nodded. "There were munitions and aircraft the Boomers would have drooled over at the old military base. Cannibalized them all for scrap, though. The aircraft I mean. The bombs we were forbidden to touch." He snorted, remembering: "Didn't stop my friend Erasmus. He nearly maimed himself messing with one—"

Marius' eyes went wide, canteen poised halfway back to his mouth. "It exploded?" he asked, horrified.

"No, no, the, uhm… what would you call them?" Damianus gestured uselessly, feeling stupid. Bombs weren't exactly his area of expertise, least of all the kind you dropped out of aircraft. "On the back end, like fletching on an arrow. Fins, I guess?

"There were metal pins in them. Erasmus pulled one, because—well, of course he did, because he was told not to—and they snapped out so hard I thought he broke his arm."

He smiled at the memory, only because he hadn't actually been hurt too badly… but just badly enough to be _incredibly_ dramatic about it. "Could barely grip a weapon for three days from the bruising. He told anyone who asked that he'd gotten on my nerves and I finally swatted him with a spear. I _should_ have, all he put me through whenever I turned my back on him."

Marius shook his head and laughed, at which part he couldn't guess. "There he goes," he observed with mock awe, "Saint Damianus the Patient."

"Have to be, the sorts of friends I tend to make."

Marius waved a dismissive hand at the notion, putting back his canteen and closing up his pack. He picked up the rebreather again as Damianus turned to check the time on the Pip-Boy. They had a few hours yet before sundown.

It struck him as a poor sign that he looked at the thing on his arm instead of at the sun to get that. Over-reliance setting in.

"Funny how much Caesar wants the Boomers' Old World tech on his side when we've been forbidden to use it," Marius observed idly, still looking at the rebreather in his hands. "You saw the howitzer at the Fort?"

Damianus drew in a breath and let it out through his nose before he answered, not looking at him. He got bolder and bolder about these opinions since—

… since what he'd said at Cottonwood. Which Damianus tried and often failed to forget about.

"It's not some state secret. It's just a big gun, Marius," he said patiently.

"Most of us don't need to carry one that big," Marius said bitterly. A crude joke, but daring to aim it at the expense of… _who he was aiming it at,_ was a kind of heresy that made Damianus' scalp prickle under every hair.

He'd give Marius credit for intellect and for balls, but not for one ounce of good fucking sense.

"And the machine he has? You've seen that." The frustration in his tone when he went on, when Damianus said nothing, mirrored Damianus' own—he didn't want to do this again. He hated this conversation. "Caesar keeps an auto-doc squirreled away in his tent surrounded by praetorians, and we can't even use a stimpak in the field."

Feeling like a broken holotape, he said: "It's not my place to question, nor yours—"

"The question is right there. If it was a snake it would have bit you," Marius interrupted. Not snapping at him, at least not—not much. Anymore.

More and more since Cottonwood, it sounded like a plea.

"Can we just—can we not?" Damianus said, setting aside the empty crisp box and busying himself with his pack. Scooting a few inches away. Checking his supply of antidote.

They'd need it in case there were cazadores. He tried to count his supply and sound neutral as he finally said, "You want to talk about machines, we're part of a machine. We serve our small role to keep it working. It's not our place to worry about the whole, it's Caesar's."

"Is that all we are?" Marius grumbled. "Is that all you want to be? A part? A tool?"

"If _that's_ what it takes to fix the world, then _yes!"_ Damianus was the one snapping. He caught himself at it, took a breath, tried to control his tone. "You can see the NCR pulling itself apart in all directions, just because of—because of too many men only concerned for themselves."

"But they get to make that choice." Marius leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees and watching him. Damianus didn't look to the expression he was wearing. "That's not a fair trade? I think it's a fair trade."

"Right. They have the freedom to choose to put their own benefit ahead of everyone else's, and everyone suffers for it. Raiders run amok—"

"Right, raiders." Marius leaned back again, thumping his back against the wall of the shack. "I forget, you're right. They're _different_ from the Legion overrunning a town."

Damianus pulled the satchels of antidote out of his bag to try again to pretend he could count it out and deal with this at the same time. Hadn't worked so far—they kept slipping out of his mind—but his hands needed it.

A moody silence fell between them.

"When you passed through White Sands, did you see Luz?" Damianus asked.

Marius didn't answer for a long moment. Damianus looked his way, not quite at his face, to see if he was just ignoring him; but Marius was staring straight at him, unmoving.

"The name isn't familiar," he said at last.

Annoyed with him. Maybe it was better to let the conversation drop if Marius was finally willing to let it drop. But he'd started to say something, to make a point. He might as well finish.

Might regret it.

"It's a free town in New Mexico, north up Highway 54 from Holloman." Marius blinked at him as he gestured, cutting the path of a road in the air with his finger. "We passed it when we left to meet the main force at Los Lunas during the campaign on Albuquerque, back in '69.

"When we marched through there I saw children my own age living with their families, watching us go by." In truth they must have seen plenty of recruits marching out of the training camps at White Sands; he remembered most of the town had gone on with business as usual, just staying out of their path. But some, the children especially, still watched the spectacle in silence from porches and windows, and empty lots beside the main drag.

"They were thriving there," he said. "Good trade, hadn't seen raiders in half those kids' lives. _Normal_ lives, where soldiers like us were…” Damianus trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"That was when I understood." He turned and met Marius' eye. He was watching him, face twisted up, chewing on something too complicated for Damianus to easily read. But he let him go on. "In training I just did what I was told, you know? But the reasons why all… clicked into place when I saw them staring at me. I thought, 'I live like this so they don't have to.' They just got to be kids in a quiet little town where a few dozen recruits marching through was the most interesting thing to happen all month."

Marius stared at him, mouth in a grim line and another line tightening between his eyebrows. Damianus had to look down at his own hands instead.

There was something about the way he was looking at him that made him feel too—like there was something on his face, or… 

Like he was being seen in a way he hadn't realized he'd invited.

He grit his teeth, tying his fingers into knots over his knees, and warded off the weirdness of it by pushing on, away from himself: "Mojave children are living in Freeside gutters, and in the West it's a dice roll if they have any life at all. Because of the raiders, or the barons pushing towns out. Because their people can't protect them, because they're all only looking out for themselves.

"If I have to be a tool to give them a life like the kids at Luz, then _that's_ a fair trade."

Marius was quiet for a long time. It was a silence he could feel crawling down his spine but Damianus didn't have anything else to say, couldn't think of anything to break it. Couldn't look at him again, either. Not if he'd still be staring at him like that.

He could hear Marius draw a breath to speak, click his teeth together. Saw him rub his hands over his face in the corner of his eye.

Damianus hated this conversation.

"When Lanius marches on Freeside," Marius said quietly, "those kids living in the gutter… how sure are you, _really,_ that they're going to get to live like the children you saw in—in Luz?"

He felt himself flinch. Felt Marius leaning in to look at him, trying to get his eye. He turned, but found himself looking somewhere between the two of them instead.

"Or will they have to live like you did, too? Because you don't get to decide that. The man running the machine does. _Caesar_ does." Marius watched him. Leaned a little more into his vision, and Damianus only looked away.

"Is that what you want for them?" he asked. "Maybe they shouldn't have to go through what we did. Maybe you shouldn't have had to, either. _Neither_ of us should have."

Silence came down on them again, sitting in the shade. Marius leaned back and turned the rebreather over absently in his hands, the motions frustrated. Damianus watched the calf nudge about at patchy overgrown plants that used to be someone's garden, not really observing it.

Damianus hated this conversation. Hated how hard it was to find an answer to that. 

He hated that it was harder and harder to try and come up with one without feeling like a liar. 

After a while, Marius put the rebreather away and pushed to his feet, picking up his pack.

"Let's go," he said when Damianus didn't look up at him right away. When he did, the expression looking back at him was… strained, but tending toward friendly. Trying to.

He had a feeling they weren't done with this talk, not by a long shot. But maybe it was a truce for now.

Marius gestured southeast, in the general direction of the lake. "I want to test if this thing works. Bet you twenty caps it doesn't," he added, trying for a smile.

"... If you drown you can't collect the money," Damianus informed him.

"So you can't lose either way. Come on, let's see this old bomber."

Damianus paused, then held out a hand. Marius hesitated only a moment before he took it and helped him up off the ground.

***

Marius heaved himself onto the submerged end of the pier and waded the rest of the way, suddenly heavy as he left the water. He made it to where the waves gave way to dry concrete and rubbed his head a little as he sat—the water pressure hadn’t been great for his skull.

“Are you alright? The rebreather worked?” Damianus turned abruptly away when Marius looked up, a hand still half-reaching for his shoulder. “I mean, obviously. You aren’t floating belly-up in the middle of the lake.”

He managed to get the mask off, hanging it around his neck. “Everything went fine, the ballast’s in place.” Marius kept his knees drawn up a little, glad the sun was mostly down. “My clothes are…?”

“Keeping dry,” Damianus said, pointing up the ramp with his chin. His eyes darted down, then back away over the water. “Should be dark enough to set the devices off by the time you’re dressed.”

He nodded, waiting for Damianus to move away, but he kept his hand out, ready to help him stand. Finally, Marius coughed a little. “Could you go keep an eye out for lakelurks, or something?”

It was impossible to say if Damianus blushed, or if it was the low sun, but he hurried up the ramp as fast as his leg would allow. Marius let him get a head start before standing, feeling like an idiot. It wasn’t like he was naked, he’d kept his shorts on, for… Reasons that shouldn’t have been reasons. The Legion lived out of tents, in camps that were usually crammed into whatever flat ground they could find. Legionaries were regularly in sight of men going shirtless, naked, everything in between—and being _seen_ in that state—and you either learned to stop caring or started attracting rumors. Caesar had a very strict definition of ‘deviant,’ and even stricter punishment for it.

Marius just wiped off as much water as he could and pulled his clothes on, still damp. The fact that it bothered him… He had dealt with that before. He could do it again.

But the fact that it seemed to bother Damianus nearly as much was—something that didn’t bear thinking about. Not quite yet. 

He was shivering by the time he headed up to their campsite, little more than a fire pit and wind break, still barefoot. Damianus turned away from the fire pit just long enough to check on him, then turned back to mutter dire non-swears and blow on the kindling some more. “You’re still soaked,” he said, when some of the larger twigs had caught.

“It’s alright,” Marius said, picking up the blanket he’d left on his pack. The sun had baked heat into the ground, but the air was rapidly cooling as it slipped below the horizon. “But we ought to head back to the shack for the night.”

He nodded, laying a thicker branch over the sticks, giving the flames something to chew on a while. “Come on. Let’s do this while there’s _some_ light.”

Marius let him lead with Rex at heel, twirling the little detonator around his finger. He hesitated on the pier, holding it out to Marius, who waved it away. “Be my guest, I’ve done my part.”

Damianus gave it a final once-over, said, “Here goes nothing,” and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened for a moment. Damianus tried the detonator again, frowning at it, and Marius grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed. The middle of the lake seemed to be boiling, air bubbles rising out of it, and then—

“Holy _shit!”_ Damianus clapped a hand over his mouth. It looked like a monster rising up out of the water, shrugging off froth and weeds as it bobbed on the lake surface. Rex barked, running back and forth as he snapped at the waves hitting the pier, and they both backed up to dry land, watching it settle. “Wow. _We_ did that…”

“With a little help,” Marius said. He tried to make out any damage on the bomber, but with the distance and the glare of the setting sun, it was impossible to say. “Hope they appreciate it.”

“How could they not?” Damianus said. He made no move to leave, looking out over the water. Marius stood with him, an arm’s length away, and couldn’t help but let his gaze wander over to him. He studied him in profile, not just looking, but appreciating; taking in the way just one corner of his mouth turned up, the way his clear, bright eyes caught the light. His lips were parted a little as he smiled, and Marius—

…Had a problem.

Damianus noticed him staring after a moment, and the little one-sided grin faded. “What?”

There were too many things running through Marius’ head, and at last he settled on, “I never thanked you for saving my life.”

“Which time?” Damianus said, with a too-casual shrug. “That’s the whole point of you and I traveling together.”

Marius nodded, looking back out over the lake. He held his breath a moment, trying the suppress the fluttering in his guts. “What do you think will happen, when Caesar wins the Mojave?”

_To us,_ unsaid, but Damianus glanced at him, away, frowning as he thought. “Well, we—he…” He ran out of steam, and started again. “I’ll probably serve as a proper decanus, again. After so long face-to-face with the NCR, Dixie Greene will be compromised. I’ll just… step back to where I should be, in our infantry.”

“Do you want that?”

Damianus shrugged again, but his shoulders seemed heavier this time. “We all have to make sacrifices.”

Marius pulled the blanket a little higher on his neck, distinctly cold where his hair was dripping. “And me?”

“You?” He looked over, and Marius met it, almost daring him to go on. Damianus sobered, then forced a smile. “My good standing will have rubbed off on you by then. You’ll probably just go back to messenger work in the Frumentarii.”

Marius couldn’t return the expression. “Really.”

His eyes darted away a moment. “Yes.”

The pier was warm underfoot, but the breeze had a sharp chill. Marius looked towards the sun, the last curve of it fat and red. “What if we…Didn’t?”

It took a moment to sink in, and Damianus’ mouth set into a grim line. “Stop,” he said. “I’m not certain what you think I’d do instead of this, Marius. Yes, you’re a lot smarter than me, but I found you sitting in a cell.”

He blinked at the complement, but shook his head as he drove off the distraction. “Well, you’ve got that on me,” he said, keeping his voice reasonable. “But I think between the two of us…” His heart was in his throat, and he had to swallow. “We can _leave_ the Legion, Damianus, just—”

“You don’t get it!” Damianus exploded. He thumped a hand to his chest, groping for words. “This is—this is all I _know,_ Marius! You’re asking—” his mouth worked a second longer before he straightened “—asking a fish to fly!”

Marius drew away, as much surprised as trying to keep is grin down. “A fish?” Damianus scowled and opened his mouth to go on, but Marius raised a hand. “No, I know what you mean. But are you really _just_ a fish? Or think you’ll only ever be a fish? Or I mean… that sounds…”

Damianus put his hands on his hips, leaning back to look at the sky. “Can you just forget the fish thing.”

“Yeah, okay.” Marius pulled the blanket higher on his shoulders, wrapping it tighter around himself. “But you’re…” Smart enough. Clever enough, to leave the Legion behind. There was such a warmth in him deep down that Marius knew, given the chance, could—

He realized he was staring, Damianus looking back at him sidelong, like he could peer through Marius if he found the right angle. Marius settled on, “You don’t have to be a Legionary,” and tucked his face into the blanket.

“I do,” he said, quietly. Damianus folded his arms, looking out across the lake. “I don’t… I don’t know what it’s like to remember anything. A tribe. Family.” He winced slightly at the word, and Marius waited, growing slowly colder and fighting the shivers. But Damianus shook it off, looking at Marius’ chin as he spoke. “I’m never going to have that. It doesn’t matter where I go, or what I do. The Legion has beaten me into a shape that only fits into the Legion.” 

He sounded miserable, and Marius’ heart hurt even as it pounded. If he could acknowledge the Legion had hurt him… Picking his words carefully, he said, “How can you know that, if you haven’t tried?” He tried to catch his eyes, and Damianus turned away, looking out over the lake and scowling. “You’ve gone West, blended in there. You never thought about it? Just disappearing into the crowd?”

“Marius, _stop.”_ Damianus took a breath just to sigh it out again, the sound of it harsh. “All I know—all the family I’ve ever had—is the Legion. All I’ve ever trained for is to serve Caesar. I don’t—I can’t think of a way to make you _understand._ That I’d just be…Alone.”

He turned away, trudging up the pier. Marius waited a moment before following. “You wouldn’t be alone.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and the flush on his cheeks almost hurt against the cold. He stopped when Damianus did, and he almost dreaded to see him turn, to see the look on his face.

_You idiot. So how do you plan to betray_ him?

Damianus didn’t turn, not fully. The last sunlight cast deep shadows on his face. “Let it go, Marius,” he said, in the voice of a man who had never dared dream, lest it be snatched away. “I don’t… Don’t _deserve_ anything but this.” When Marius said nothing, he glanced back, not looking at his face. More briskly, he said, “Come on, you’re freezing. Warm up a little and we can head back to the shack.”

Damianus trudged along towards the campfire, head down. Holding the blanket closer as he picked up his boots, Marius followed.


	6. Chapter 6

“So I had to run for my life, the whole vault collapsing around me, right. I’m nearly up the elevator shaft, and I can feel _something_ grab at my boot—”

“No way,” Damianus said. “You’re trying to tell me you were hunted by some kind of slime monster living in the walls of a Vault?”

“I don’t know what it was!” Marius said, throwing up his hands. “But it sure wanted me dead.”

“Whatever you say.” Damianus made a skeptical face, shaking his head as he checked their direction on his Pip-boy. Rex scrambled past them, sniffing eagerly at the air and snapping at the insects he scared up out of the weeds. “I’ll believe it when I see it, I suppose.”

“I could probably find the vault again,” Marius said, picking over some loose stones on the cliffside. It was a beautiful, picturesque morning with the Colorado River canyon stretched off to his left, but he kept his eye on his footing to keep the vertigo away. “I’d be curious to. I liked that torch…”

“You think they’ll send you back through Colorado any time soon?”

Marius stared at the back of his head, until the silence made Damianus turn and Marius could meet his eyes. “I’m lucky if I get out of the Mojave alive.”

Damianus turned again, swiping a hand at his head before flinging it down. “Don’t start this,” he said, frustrated. “Right now, you’re doing everything right. You’re following orders. You’re working with me. Vulpes doesn’t have a thing he can make stick—”

“You think I’ve been forgiven? I wasn’t just…” _Accused_ of treason. The sentence died before Marius could finish; even admitting it to Damianus made him blanch. “I was never going to get off that easy. You know it.”

He sighed again, and stopped, turning to face Marius. “Look,” Damianus said, and pressed his lips thin. He waved a hand at a hollow area in the stones with a patch of concrete in its center, Rex sniffing at the metal hatch set into it. “Look. Alright. I’ll hear you out, everything you want to say. _After—”_ He pointed to the hatch again. “After this. The signal is coming out of here, Brotherhood, House’s robots, whatever, we deal with that, then…” He shrugged, waving his hands as though at something huge and tangled. “But we deal with this first.”

Marius stared at him. “You mean it,” he said, searching his face for a clue.

“Yes,” Damianus said, with a sharp nod. “Let's just get the job done since we're here, and then we'll, I dunno. We'll talk. I'll let you talk. Then I get to talk about why it’s a terrible idea.”

It was like something had let go in Marius’ chest. “Okay,” he managed to say, still not believing his ears. “Okay. Deal.”

He nodded again, walking towards the entrance. “I can almost promise there’s no slime monster down there,” he said, lifting the hatch, its hinges shrieking. “Since they don’t exist.”

“Oh no, Rex, did _Dixie_ fall down a _well?”_ Marius said, as Damianus began to climb. Rex wagged at being addressed, dancing on his front feet. “Should we leave him to sit there a while?” Rex barked, running in a tight circle. “Yes? Let him think it over? Good boy!”

“If you’re done fooling around?” Damianus called, voice echoing up the shaft. “It’s some sort of bunker. Toss me your pack, _you’re_ carrying the dog down.”

“Oh, come on.” Marius stared down the access at him. “He can stay out here.”

_“You_ come on!” Damianus said, beckoning. “It could get tight down here, he’ll be useful. _Tolle,_ Rex!”

“Fine,” Marius said, reaching for the dog. “Since when have you been teaching him Latin?”

“Since you play with your garbage in the evenings,” he said, as Marius got Rex set over his shoulders. Marius scowled, too winded to argue, and Damianus pressed the opening. “Honestly, it’s just arts and crafts unless I see a finished knife out of it. You may as well start gluing macaroni to things.”

Marius just puffed out a breath, climbing down the ladder. They were gonna have a _lot_ to talk about.

He let Rex down, who was immediately stiff-legged and alert, ears up as he paced over to Damianus’ side. He straightened up, standing over a corpse in a white jumpsuit. “Head’s gone. Just…pasted,” he said, and gestured to a few splashes on the walls and floor. “He wasn’t the only one, either.”

“’Left my heart in the Sierra Madre’,” Marius said, reading the better-spelled graffiti. “The Sierra Madre’s a scavenger’s myth.”

“Myth has to come from somewhere,” Damianus said, descending the stairs with his machete drawn. Marius shadowed him, rifle at the ready, and Rex slid past to lead, nose working. “Think it’s down here?”

“We could leave the Legion rich enough to buy out a brahmin baron,” Marius said.

Damianus glanced back. “We’re not… You can’t just leave it alone for an hour? Twenty minutes?”

“No,” Marius said, and he heard Damianus sigh. It had been a joke, but his mind couldn’t help but wander. Money went a long way towards smoothing things over, in the West. If it existed, the Madre could never hold up to the rumors—but the possibilities…

He slowed as Damianus put his ear to a door at the bottom of the stairs, eyes unfocused as he listened for movement behind it. Marius lifted his head, and nodded to deeper in the bunker. A woman’s voice was speaking, faintly, with the tinny sound of a radio. Damianus nodded back, and briefly tested the wheel on the bulkhead door, before gesturing for Marius to follow.

There was a larger room at the end of the hall, and Damianus indicated one half and himself, and the other to Marius. He nodded, they’d round into it fast and check the corners. Shoulder to shoulder, they readied their weapons, and Damianus said under his breath, _”Go.”_ Two long strides took them into the room.

Something went _ping_ at ankle height.

Marius started to look down, then up as he tried to scramble back, out of the room. Everything felt too slow, and he fell, Rex barking in high-pitched alarm—Vents in the ceilings had opened, and he could see vapor pouring out of them. He tried to scramble to his hands and knees, but his limbs were going heavy, pins and needles starting in his hands. Beside him, Damianus was on his hands and knees, coughing, and collapsed as he tried to crawl for the entrance.

Marius reached for him, grabbing a handful of his shirt, but was too weak to stand. He held his breath and managed to drag him for one massive heave before having to gasp for air.

He could taste a bloody, chemical tang on the back of his tongue, and all he could see was darkness.

***

Marius coughed as he rolled over, pausing to rest his throbbing head on his arm, his nose inches from a steel floor. He felt beside him for Damianus, but instead of cloth, his hand met something warm and metallic—and rough, as he felt at it. Rex whined, feet scraping the floor as he tried to stand, and gave up with a thump.

He managed to push himself to his knees, pressing the heel of one hand to his forehead. He sat there a moment, letting the world stop spinning, his other hand on Rex's neck for comfort. “Damianus?” he croaked, and had to fight to swallow before going on. “Are you awake?”

Rex whined. There was no other sound in the bunker.

He had to grab the wall as he stood, searching the room. The tripwire on the entrance hadn’t been reset, the radio on the center table was turned off—and Damianus was nowhere to be seen. Helping Rex to his feet, he let the dog lean against his legs as he headed back to the stairs. “Damianus? Are you up…”

The doorway at the bottom of the stairs was open. Marius loosened his machete in its sheath before pushing it open wider, ready to swing, but all that lay beyond it was what looked like a living space. He glanced over it once, saw no sign of Damianus, and was half a step away before pausing.

A leg brace was sticking out of the footlocker at the end of the bed. Marius leaned on the tables in the middle of the room on his way over, legs giving out as he hit the bed. He leaned over the foot of it to pull out the brace, Damianus’ boots. His clothes. He set them aside, frowning, and picked up the leg brace again, laying across his lap. Turning it over, one of the belts around the thigh had come loose, the leather stretched far enough to pop free of the rivet holding it to the frame. 

Marius laid it back on his lap, not looking over as Rex limped across the room to put his head on his knee. The dog whined, and he automatically started rubbing behind his ears. Nothing had been moving behind the door, Rex hadn’t paid it a moment’s attention. No other people but the dead man upstairs, and no signs of habitation, just the radio playing softly in the barracks room. A trap.

A trap that they had walked right into, and someone had set it to take Damianus. Someone had come into the bunker while they were drugged, forcefully stripped him, and taken him away.

It didn't make any sense; it was the only thing that made sense. Marius patted at his clothes, looked himself over, but whoever had… had kidnapped his friend, didn't seem to have touched him.

Rex followed as he stood, heading upstairs for the ladder out. He could hear the wind howling from halfway up, but pushed the hatch open anyway. Sand and dust made him shield his eyes, but a late afternoon sun was still trying to shine though the wind storm.

Twelve hours asleep then, give or take. Twelve hours for them to get away, and Damianus with them, into a storm.

Marius let go of the ladder, leaning back against the far side of the access shaft, and pressed his hands to his face.

***

“I'm looking for Dixie.”

The sniper stared back at him, sunglasses hiding his expression. “Haven't seen him.”

“We were separated in that sandstorm, yesterday,” Marius said, walking backwards to keep up with him. “We were close to here, I thought—”

“Haven't. Seen him,” he said again, slower and harder. He didn't look back as he shut the motel door on him.

Marius stepped back into the motel courtyard, rubbing his forehead. The morning sun was intense, and made all of Novac look stark and shabby in its light. Who else, here? The motel woman has been the closest thing to a leader here, and she was dead. The old Ranger hadn't seen him, nor the ‘doctor’ who saw to the settlers.

“You're a man lookin’ for somethin’.”

“I don't want to hear about the vampires again,” Marius said, hiking his backpack up as he started to walk.

Rex snuffled at No-Bark's hand as he kept pace. “Oho, smart lad, they come for you when you know too much,” the old beggar said, wagging a finger. “Where's that other young feller? I got some cards what want to talk to him.”

“He's missing,” Marius said, stopping at the crossroads at the center of town. “Since the storm yesterday. Have you seen him?”

No-Bark shook his head. “Oh, I am sorry to hear that. There's ghosts in those storms, steal people off to—”

Marius turned abruptly away, headed out of town.

***

The wrinkles around Johnson Nash's eyes deepened. “Your boyfriend? You two have falling out, son?”

“He's not my boyfriend,” Marius said, automatically. “We got split up a few days ago. I don't know where he wound up.”

Nash leaned an elbow on the counter, rubbing his chin. “Well,” he said slowly, and Marius leaned closer. “I haven't.” He looked away, barely catching the sympathetic look on the old man's face. “Tell you what, kid. I see your boyf— your friend, I'll let him know you're looking for him. He's probably doin’ the same for you. Should I tell him to try and meet with you anywhere?”

“Last place we camped. He'll know the one,” Marius said. He gave Nash a half-hearted wave as he left.

***

“Look, I know it’s a long shot, but nobody noticed anything? It would have been broad daylight…”

“Sorry, man.” Klamath Bob shrugged from behind the counter. “Even had a chat with Mean Sonofabitch last night, and he didn’t mention. Nobody’s seen him around.”

The only other patron of the liquor store was a woman with dark, curly hair, waiting patiently for Marius to finish his business. He tried not to stare at her. “If anyone has any leads, I’m willing to listen,” Marius said, and laying a hand on a pocket that clinked gently with caps.

The shopkeeper raised his hands. “Come on now, I sell liquor, not information. If I knew about your friend, I’d tell you, not give you the runaround.”

“Yeah,” Marius sighed, and sloped out of the door. He lingered a moment, and the woman left a few minutes later, giving him an odd look as she tucked a couple stimpaks into a bag. Marius stared after her a moment, but she didn’t acknowledge him, making her way to an apartment building. He wiped a hand down his face and patted his leg, calling Rex from where he’d settled beside the door.

Marius kept his head down, kicking at stones as he wandered out of Westside. None of the towns in the Mojave had seen him. He’d visited damn hear every one, and a nasty suspicion was building in the back of his mind.

He pointed his feat east and started walking. He had some favors to call in.

***

Perez started when he came around the corner of the tent, clutching his chest. “Por dios, Rojas, you son of a bitch, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

“Sorry,” Marius said, straightening up. He glanced over his shoulder; the Forlorn Hope barracks were little more than a webwork of rotting canvas. It looked even worse in the dull, overcast day. “Can we walk?”

“Not far, man, but…” Perez led the way towards the edge of camp, taking nervous glances both ahead and behind. Marius didn’t blame him, this close to the Colorado. “What’s up? You alright, man? Last time I saw you, you were in rough shape, you need something?”

“Yeah, I do.” Marius crouched beside some of the rocks that made up Hope’s borders, hiding himself from onlookers both inside and outside of camp. Perez followed suit, frowning. “Did any patrols go south of here three days ago?”

“South? One, checking on Nelson…” He looked back over his shoulder. “Why are you asking me?”

“It wouldn’t have been as far as Nelson,” Marius said, chewing a hangnail on his thumb as he thought. “It was probably just a few people, but they either didn’t return here, or brought someone back to the jail.”

“Rojas…I can’t tell you shit like that.” He sat more comfortably on one of the stones, and folded his hands as he looked at Marius. “Look, you’re civilian now, just telling you about our actions is—” He gestured, as if throwing something away. “You don’t look good, man. I’ve been worried about you since we ran into you at 188, and you just…” He shook his head.

“I’m fine.” Marius ran a hand over his hair, a little tacky from not being washed. His eyes burned from being awake so long. “I’m gonna be okay,” he said, to clarify, _once he found Damianus._ “I just need to know, if…”__

_ _“Why?”_ _

_ _“It doesn’t matter why,” Marius said. Perez gave him a flat look. “Nico, come on…”_ _

_ _“Nah, we’re back to last names if you’re gonna act like a lunatic,” he said, unflinching. His gaze wandered over his shoulder. “Wait, where’s that little guy you were with? The one Reed said was at McCarran with you?”_ _

_ __He’s gone,_ the words tried to get out, but choked themselves up somewhere in Marius’ throat. Something must have gotten through in his expression, because Perez sat back, face softening. “Something happened to him?”_ _

_ _He had to clear his throat a couple times and rub his eyes, hiding his face in his hands. “Yeah,” he said at last, voice rasping._ _

_ _“And you think we did it.”_ _

_ _“I don’t know,” he said, trying to look him in the eye, but his gaze kept dropping._ _

_ _There was a long, long silence. Marius sat back on his heels, face in hands. “Alex,” Perez said, slowly. “Why do you think the NCR is after your friend?”_ _

_ _He raised his head, finally managing to look at him. “I can’t tell you that. I just need to know if—”_ _

_ _“No.” Perez stood, shaking his head. “No, this stinks, man. I’m sorry. I’m sorry something’s up with your friend, okay? And I really think you ought to come lay down in the infirmary a while. But I can’t tell you what you’re asking, especially if… If it’s for the reasons I’m thinking.”_ _

_ _“I don’t care what you’re thinking, I just want to get him _back—”__ _

_ _“And if our side took him, they had a reason to.” Perez sounded wretched. He wrung his hands together a moment before putting them at his sides, a tic beaten out of him. “Don’t give me more than that. I got suspicions, but they’re just suspicions right now, okay? But _I_ haven’t seen him, I haven’t seen anyone who might have been him, I haven’t seen anything weird except you, man. And I think you need some help.”_ _

_ _Marius shut his eyes tight as he rubbed at them. He felt almost dizzy. “Alright,” he said, wavering as he pushed himself to his feet. “I get it. I do.”_ _

_ _Perez had a hand out, ready to catch him. “You need to get some rest,” he said. “You come with me, just get some shuteye, something. You look bad, man. I’m your friend enough to say that. Don’t have to talk to anyone in charge.”_ _

_ _It was tempting._ _

_ _Marius stared at his hand. Tempting, but it would lead to questions; questions from Perez, which would become questions from his superiors, which would mean personnel at McCarran catching wind of it, and then…_ _

_ _He patted him on the shoulder as he passed, keeping his eyes on the ground. “I’ll be fine,” Marius said, not wanting to see his face. “There’s a few more places I can look.”_ _

_ _“Rojas…” Marius did look up then, and almost couldn’t handle the pity in Perez’s expression. He managed a half-smile before it faded. “Just look after yourself.”_ _

_ _“I plan to.” _Once I find him…__ _

_ _Marius made his way out of camp, finding where he’d told Rex to sit tight. His feet took him back towards the highway, and automatically south, to the empty bunker. Maybe the NCR had done it. He had a couple more contacts, a little clout left to work with. He could go to McCarran, the hub of all the NCR’s military here, but the thought of Curtis overhearing, of word getting back to Vulpes and Caesar…_ _

_ _Unless they already knew. The only other people who might know something—the only ones who might have a means to track him—were Legion._ _

_ _He shook his head. And what would he say? That he'd lost Caesar's favorite pawn, and needed help finding him? That he had changed his ways, was crawling back for forgiveness?_ _

_ _He snorted. Damianus was the only thing keeping him from a cross already. He knew how that conversation would end._ _

_ _He was standing still on the road, staring at the ground. Rex tipped his head, ears pricked, waiting for a command._ _

_ __ _

With a sigh, he said, “Come on, boy,” and kept walking.

***

It was almost comical when they found a safe bed in Puesta Del Sol. He could have laughed: he was still buzzing from another trip to the clinic. There was no way he'd be able to sleep.

It had been more than three days, according to the Pip-Boy. Three days since he woke up at the fountain, and he hadn't slept since, and he had a long way to go yet. Human beings weren't meant to live this way. Even the Legion had seldom pushed him so far.

More and more since the second day, he thought he saw ghosts in the corners of his vision—green lights from their masks floating in the dark. He found none when he turned to look. Perhaps they were toying with him, flitting in and out of the shadows while they watched him run Elijah's maze. They were smart enough to bait traps, they were smart enough to play a long game.

He liked that theory better than the suspicion that he was going mad, but not by much.

The woman had been getting glassy-eyed, swaying on her feet whenever they stopped moving for more than a minute. She'd refused to go near the auto-docs to take the adrenaline shot, and Damianus didn't blame her.

Now he caught her giving the mattress a longing look as they swept the room for traps, and he thought about telling her no, they could only spare a few minutes, but…

It was a difficult line to walk. He hated being the ringleader under the old man. They—the team, the collars—needed to work together. Damianus needed them all to trust him. Whether he intended to make good on that or not.

He did not intend to. Not for the mutant, anyway, and maybe not for the ghoul. The woman he was still on the fence about.

Ordering them around to the detriment of their own health wasn't conducive to surviving that far. But he had to balance their needs against the old man's expectations and keep proving that Damianus and the rest of the team were assets, keep proving he was an obedient pawn. Or else they'd all go down together.

Still, running the woman ragged didn't help anything, even if he couldn't point that out to the old man for concern it would sound too much like the forbidden 'no' that would mean his life. It would only make keeping himself alive that much harder if she got too tired, if she started getting sloppy against the ghosts. If Elijah was telling the truth about the deadman switch. It would be as easy as slipping a knife into Domino's ribs to find out once and for all. If it was a bluff it was a good one: the kind he couldn't afford to call.

He had to take it for truth. The woman was neither fond of Domino's harassment nor shy about tampering with her collar. If it were safe she might have beaten Damianus to the knife.

… Or kept her findings to herself to reduce the risk Damianus would turn on her. She was cautious and clever enough not to forfeit the insurance.

("That's my sister," Damianus had told Domino flatly, when he pestered her on their arrival at the fountain.

She struck him as someone who did not need his help fending the old ghoul off, but Domino also struck him as the type of man who would not take the hint from a woman—a type he knew well—and Damianus didn't need the risk of them coming to blows.

He'd half meant it as a joke as much as it was a veiled threat. The woman had given him a funny look, but when Domino glanced between them he could see him comparing their stature, their scarred faces, their shorn heads and matched scowls, and failing to convince himself it was a lie. A nervousness had entered his posture, and he straightened.

"Nevermind me, just saying how do you do," Domino had said cheerfully, and removed himself from her space.

Damianus thought he caught a glimmer of amusement in her eye.)

She spared him the decision to let her lie down in the safe room or not; when they finished their sweep she stayed standing, back leaned against the wall to check on the holorifle he'd passed to her. She knew as well as he did that they weren't in a position to test the old man's patience. When the woman didn't give him any look that demanded conversation, Damianus continued creeping around and putting his ear to the walls just to be sure.

The air in the ruined building seemed cleaner for being comparatively well sealed—he thought it did, anyway. It was hard to tell. The metallic tang of the cloud lingered in his mouth so heavily that he tasted traces of it on everything he ate and drank, even out of uncompromised bottles and packets. Every drop of water tasted faintly of blood, no matter how clean.

Or perhaps his throat was bleeding. It felt raw enough. He wouldn't know the difference.

The rattle of air through a ghost's mask made him jump. He brought up the beartrap gauntlet and braced himself, cast around quickly for the source. It was faint but it was close, he couldn't tell if it was through the wall, or—

It was gone. He couldn't hear it anymore. He looked to the woman, who was staring back warily, rifle at the ready. Waiting for confirmation.

He shook his head, paused, held up a finger to tell her to wait. They listened again, one minute. Two.

Nothing. He wasn't sure he'd heard it to begin with. Could be it had simply been far away and moved farther. But they didn't walk very quickly when they weren't on alert, and if it was aware of them they'd have found out by now.

Damianus shook his head again to the woman.

She was standing attentively, more alert than she'd been a moment before, probably for the scare. After a moment she tucked the butt of the rifle under her arm, the stock draped over her forearm to free her other hand. She pointed at him, then at her ear.

He shrugged and rasped, quietly: "I thought I did."

It hurt to speak, when he was safe to do so. His voice sounded deeper and grittier to his own ears. If he made it out of here, would it ever go back to normal?

She nodded and repeated the gesture: pointed at him, then her ear, then tapped on her temple. He frowned, and she did it again. Damianus. Ear. Temple. Damianus.

_Are you hearing things in your head?_

He opened his mouth, closed it again. Ran a hand over the stubble growing in on his chin and winced.

"I don't know," was all he could say.

She nodded again, watching him carefully. Not unsympathetically, maybe. They were both tired. Human beings weren't meant to live this way.

He sat down heavily at the dining table and tried not to think about it.

A few minutes passed in silence as they went through their scavenged gear to strip parts and make repairs. Between work they ate what they could, sharing bites from the same can of beans with the same spoon, the only unrusted one they'd found so far. There was no room to be delicate about sharing. Not when they had to scrape for anything they could find that hadn't been consumed by the cloud or squirreled away by Domino in the last two centuries. If they were lucky they'd find another of his caches soon.

Damianus paused in his work and whispered to her: "Is it Carol? Or… Caroline?"

She shook her head without looking up.

They'd gotten as far as her nodding yes, that it was a common name, and shaping the letter C with her hand. But she'd struggled with how to arrange the next letters in a way he could recognize using only her fingers. Offering her pen and paper had been a non-start.

They had little time to spare playing that game, not with the length of Puesta Del Sol before them and ghosts around every corner. So he offered up his best guesses of Western names he knew whenever they came to him—spread apart so as not to annoy her.

So far it wasn't Carol or Caroline, nor Claudia, Cassidy, Chloe, Carla, Cathy, Cayla, Cassandra, Clarissa, or Crystal (she'd wrinkled her nose at that one—he thought it was a nice name).

He couldn't keep calling her The Woman. It felt… he didn't like how it felt.

It would be a shame, if he only became more like his brothers now that it had gotten Marius k—

He fumbled the screwdriver and it fell with a clatter onto the table, making her jump. She made a _tssssss_ at him with the tip of her tongue. _Be quiet._

He nodded and went back to work. It didn't do to think on it too much. Which didn't mean he didn't think on it constantly.

He'd kill the mutant when he got the chance.

They allowed themselves fifteen minutes, splitting more of the meager rations they'd found between them and eating quickly; they passed the last bottle of clean water they had back and forth before breaking into the stuff that made the Pip-Boy tick. 

The weapons needed little work. Truth be told, there wasn't that much to be done but the task the old man had given them. But a chance to stop and rest for even just a few minutes out of the cloud was to be savored.

As they shoved everything back into their packs, Damianus asked: "Is it Christie?"

She glanced sharply at him and inclined her head just a little. An almost-nod, but not quite. She pointed at him and then held up her hands, palms together, and drew them apart a few inches. _Like that, but longer._

"Christina."

She pushed them an inch closer together.

"... Christine?"

She smiled a little and nodded, eyes crinkling up. It was genuine, if small. She was pleased; maybe it was just the simple act of bothering to learn it when the old man only called her The Mute. Or was it because someone knew her now? Here, in Tartarus. At what might be the end. It was good to be known, even by another dead man.

What he knew about her was scarce but it was something. She was Brotherhood, like the old man, and Damianus had thought for a bit that maybe she was colluding with Elijah: his eyes on the ground in their little team, pretending to be one of them, with Damianus and his Pip-Boy and his forced deputization drawing suspicion away from her, and the history she shared with the old man.

But the hate in her eyes when Elijah spoke to them from the fountain projector was too real. He believed that she despised Elijah. Every ounce of her wanted him dead. If nothing else, he trusted her for that.

He knew also, or he confidently guessed, that she was whatever the Brotherhood had for frumentarii. A better one than Damianus, he was willing to wager; he knew better by now than to discount the threat she posed merely because of what was or wasn't in her trousers. Christine had a dozen skills for every one of his, and she was proficient in each of them.

He knew also that she'd loved another woman.

That was… it was not familiar. And it also was. Damianus had no lovers—he was too busy for it. Or, he told himself that, when the truth of it was complicated. He had the feeling it was complicated where she came from too, for similar reasons. If he had regrets facing his end having never taken his chances, he suspected she had as many for her losses.

So when they spoke of it, for a certain measure of speaking, there had been a moment of… something, between them. That passing familiarity. Recognition.

At the end, it was good to be known.

He lingered with his hand on the exit door, that thought sticking. Stared at his feet a moment, then watched her out of the corner of his eye.

"I lied. Earlier." He was wary of the knowledge that she may not be the only one listening, that Elijah might be eavesdropping through the collars. But the only way Elijah was going to make it out of here alive was if Damianus and Christine _didn't,_ and so it didn't matter either way, in the end.

"My name is not Dixie," he went on, drumming his fingers against the doorknob. "It's Damianus."

He could see the split second of confusion and the dots connecting. Christine's smile vanished when they did.

Neither of them moved. She seemed to be appraising him. Thinking it over. Waiting for something, with her knuckles turning white around the holorifle.

"So now you know me," he said quietly. "No secrets. That's all." His dug his thumbnail absently into the keyhole on the doorknob and picked at the metal edges.

She still didn't move; she was watching him with hard eyes, and he didn't blame her. The moment stretched on and on and he… maybe because he was losing his mind, he went on:

"It's just that there's no—there's nobody waiting for me. Not really. Not for me. I almost died once—" he touched the scars on his jaw and his hairline, "—and no one would have known. Wasn't… it wasn't even the first time I almost died, but it was the... nearest. And no one would have known.

"This time… other than you, no one will. If I don't make it."

Christine didn't look especially sympathetic. Her mouth twisted in a sneer and he didn't need her to sign to get the idea: he was a Legionary. Why _should_ anyone care about one less monster? Why should _she?_ He thought that was what it meant, anyway—maybe those were his own thoughts. Because it was true. He didn't blame her if that was what she was thinking, because it was right.

He didn't really even want her sympathy. Wasn't sure why he was telling her all this. Maybe to earn her trust. Put it all on the table. Let her know who he was, let her _know_ that she knew who he was. Without lies. That he gave that to her freely and in good faith.

Maybe he was saying it just because he needed to say it once before he died, and it was easier to say knowing there was nothing anyone could do about it here. Nothing got worse when you were already in Tartarus. There was nothing they could do to him. Whatever he said wouldn't matter in the end.

It wouldn't matter. Nothing would.

"Elijah should have met Caesar," Damianus heard himself telling Christine suddenly.

It was a mad thought, the one he had forming. Had been forming for a while. Heresy to speak aloud; even as he said it, instinctive dread prickled the hairs on his neck, but it didn't matter. Wouldn't matter. And he felt the truth of it in his bones. He could all but hear Marius saying it, if he were here, and it was right. He would be right.

If he were still alive to say it.

Just loud enough to make sure the old man would hear if he was listening, Damianus went on: "I think they'd find a great deal in common, if they could stomach having to really look in a mirror."

His skin crawled, but it felt good to give voice to the treason brewing in him.

They stood in silence a moment, staring at each other. Perhaps waiting to see if the old man said something—Damianus was, at least, and half hoped he did. But nothing came.

At last, Christine gave him a slow nod.

***

Marius sat outside the bunker, head resting on his arms. Rex was curled up next to him, listless, and Marius felt his nose. Still a healthy cold and wet, and he ruffled his ears, to no response. “Me too, boy.”

He'd checked in with nearly every habitation in the Mojave; he'd searched the empty places to find them still empty. He'd spent two days searching further, out past the Mojave's poorly-drawn borders, hoping against hope that he could pick up a trail, find some sign. More time, returning here, just trying to stay busy, repairing the strap on Damianus’ leg brace and straightening the twist that had been put in the steel.

He hadn’t taken it up with the NCR, in the end. The repercussions made his skin crawl—and his fear of them put a silent choir of _coward, coward, coward_ in his head.

So now he just sat, watching a reddish sun slip below the horizon, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. There was nothing left for him in the Mojave. He could leave, run from the war, finally be free of the Legion. There was nothing left to stop him.

Except...

He could feel another headache building up, making him feel listless and off. Marius rubbed at his eyes, raising his head for one last look at the horizon.

Someone moved, out in the dust to the south. Marius froze. They were in too deep a shadow to make out, but were moving slowly, unsteadily. He stood, shading his eyes, heart in his throat. A man, maybe, with a shaved head…

“Dixie?”

They looked his way, tense, fists coming up for a fight. Marius nearly fell down the rocks concealing the bunker entrance, hitting the ground running. “Dixie!?”

He staggered back, hands raised as Marius reached for him, and he paused to stare in horror. Damianus’ eyes were painfully bloodshot, the look in them glassy as he tried to focus on Marius. He wore a jumpsuit with the top half tied at his waist, baring an undershirt spattered with blood and streaks of god-knew-what. What looked like a massive bite mark was starting to fester on his shoulder.

And around his neck… Marius’ gut twisted. The light on the explosive collar was blinking, deactivated but ready to arm, the red light competing with the setting sun.

Marius took a breath, trying to get a hold of himself. “Come on, Dixie,” he said, gesturing for him to follow. “It's me. It's Marius. You're alright now, we should…”

He was whispering under his breath, and Marius leaned closer to hear. His voice rasped like a ghoul's. “... Not safe, not safe outside…”

“I know. I know. We can go somewhere safe, there's a place right here.” Marius tried again to touch him, and managed to take his hand—his left, the other one wrapped up in some kind of makeshift claw. His hand was limp in his, and Marius put his other hand on his back, urging him on. “Damianus. Come on. I'll take you inside, somewhere safe.”

Damianus nodded, and blinked. “Marius?” Before he could respond, he made a choking noise, reaching awkwardly around him to pull him closer. He was mumbling nonsense in this painful raw voice, with the phrase _‘ate you’_ at the core of it.

He was rank, this close, and covered in smears of things Marius didn't want to think about. He held on to him anyway, and felt how he shook, the bomb collar digging into his shoulder. “We should get that thing off you,” he said when he managed to pry him off.

That set off a new round of panic, more broken, rasping words as Damianus pushed him away, keeping that gauntlet too ready for his liking. Marius kept his hands up, as much to show they were empty as to catch a blow. “Damianus. Dixie,” and god, which of those was going to get through to him, “it's alright. It's deactivated, it just needs to come off. You're fine…”

He didn't seem able to focus, staring dumbly at Rex coming to greet him, his tail wagging uncertainly. Marius took advantage of the lull to take his arm and lead him to the bunker entrance, convince him to hang on to his shoulders to be carried down as he climbed.

The dim, quiet room seemed to calm him further, and Marius was taking most of Damianus’ weight by the time he got him to the workroom downstairs, to the bed at the end. Sitting him down, he slumped, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Okay,” Marius said, kneeling on the bed. “Let's just get this collar off, okay? It's deact—it's deactivated!” He had to grab his hand as he fought, the teeth on the improvised gauntlet an unpleasant match for the wound on his shoulder. It was held on by wrapped belts and ropes, and Marius started working it free as he talked, trying to distract him. “It's safe, Damianus. It's fine. I’m here. You can trust me.”

He kept speaking as he laid it aside, briefly rubbing at the red marks that had been left on his arm. His eyes were shut as Marius leaned closer. “Everything's going to be okay now,” he said, feeling for the catch on the collar. Damianus tried to pull back but was stopped by the wall, and too weak to pull his arm away from the collar. “I’m here. You'll be fine. I promise.”

The collar came free, with a mechanical whir from the lock, and Marius winced at the raw marks on his neck and collarbones. Damianus took a breath, as though a weight many times that of the collar had been lifted, and reached to rub at the sores.

“Stop,” Marius said, setting the collar on the floor. Damianus tried to focus on him for a moment, hand wavering. “Lay down. You're wounded, just lay down while I get you something for it.”

He tried to reply, breaking into a fit of coughing, and finally just nodded. Marius helped swing his legs up and lay back, settling a pillow behind his head. When he tried to step away, Damianus caught at his arm, whispering something.

“What?” He leaned down to listen, but Damianus’ eyes were closed, mouth open as he breathed.

Damianus was still holding his wrist. Marius looked down at it a long moment, then sat on the edge of the bed, holding it in place.

***

In around twelve hours, Damianus had fallen once, trying to get out of bed. He had slept for almost half a day without even turning over—so soundly that Marius watched him carefully from time to time, making sure he was still breathing—only to snap awake in a panic, making all of two strides before his bad leg gave out and he pitched over on the bunker floor.

Marius sighed as he slung him up over his shoulders, carrying him back to the bunk. He’d bloodied a knee doing it, too, and Marius had run out of healing materials. Including the stimpak to handle the bear-trap wound on his shoulder, though he would take the fact to his grave. Laying him down, he tore off a bit of the sheet and used it as a bandage. “You’re lucky nobody’s ever died of a skinned knee,” he muttered, tying it off.

Damianus didn’t respond, eyes closed, his breath still raw in his throat.

Honestly, in this state, that might be all it took. And if he fell again, broke an arm, hit his head…

He’d gotten his boots and the replacement leg brace off already, trying to make him more comfortable, and stuffed another pillow under his head for something to do. But comfort wouldn’t keep him there, and Marius didn’t like the thought of tying him to the bed. Rubbing his own eyes, he imagined him waking just enough to panic again, and sighed as he dragged the mattress off one of the bunks down the hall. Rex perked up a little as he laid it on the floor next to Damianus, and Marius made room as the cyberdog settled behind his knees, head resting on Marius’ thigh.

He looked up. Damianus’ hand was just visible, hanging off the side of the bunk, and he reached to push it onto the mattress. He threw the blanket over himself and rubbed at one of Rex’s ears before shutting his eyes. Worrying wouldn’t help.

But that didn’t mean it would stop.

What had _happened_ to him? Marius caught himself staring at the far wall as he tried to piece it together: the trap, references to the Sierra Madre, his wounds, his delirium…Something horrible, clearly, but just _what_ eluded him.

And trying to puzzle it out drowned the other question: Was he going to get better?

Eventually, his own lack of sleep must have caught up to him, because he felt himself start, groping blindly for a machete. Something brushed at his arm, and Rex stood to nose at the bed. And there was a sound of…

“Damianus?” His lips were pulled back in a grimace as he sobbed, tears shamelessly streaking his face. He grabbed at Marius’ shirt as he stood, sitting up with him like he was afraid he would leave. Marius tried to pull his hands out of his grip. “What’s wrong, are you hurting? I don’t know…”

He shook his head, another sob racking him. He tried to speak, but between his throat and the tears it wasn’t anything Marius understood. “Quiet, you’re alright.” Marius glanced over his shoulder, as though someone might be watching. “Damianus. It’s okay, you’re safe. You’re back in the bunker.” Half for his own benefit, he added, “There’s nobody here but us.”

Damianus seemed to focus on him a moment before breaking down again, reaching to pull him closer. He froze, with Damianus’ arms around his waist, his head resting against him. Marius almost pushed him away, at a loss, but Damianus just…held on.

Marius couldn’t stop from taking another nervous look around. Hesitantly, he rested a hand on Damianus’ back, another on his head. “It’s alright,” he whispered. His legs hurt, the edge of the bed digging into them.

Damianus made no move to let go as he shifted, shoulders still shaking, and if anything held on tighter. “Couldn’t find you,” he rasped. “Said he had fed, it’s why he left me…”

_What had happened to him?_ And the other question chasing it, _is he going to get better?_

“Hey. It’s alright now.” Marius realized he was rubbing his fingers through Damianus’ hair, grown well past the usual stubble. He pushed him back, but Damianus was loath to let go, and Marius had to work around him as he sat on the bunk, an arm around his shoulders. “Who said?”

“Dog. God,” Damianus said, like he was correcting himself. He wiped at his eyes. “Thought he ate you. I killed them, the mutant…”

He trailed off, mumbling, and Marius squinted at him hopelessly. “I’m right here. I’ve been looking for you for a week.” Damianus’ face twisted, and Marius rubbed the back of his head as he coughed and sobbed. But he seemed calmer for a moment, and Marius risked, “What happened?”

Damianus groaned, pressing his face into Marius’ shoulder. His breathing hitched, and the words came between breaths. “Dog. God. Fucking Dean. The old man. All of them, I… Had it coming, they all…” A tension as he held his breath, trying to stem the tears, finally letting go with a force that nearly made him fold in half. “Christine…”

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” He held on to him as he rode it out, waited with his cheek pressed to the top of his head before he asked. “What happened to Christine?” _Who the hell is Christine?_

_Stayed_ was the only word Marius could make out. “She stayed at the Madre?” Marius asked. Damianus nodded once, miserable. “Does she need help?”

A long pause, and Damianus shook his head. He seemed to realize the risk of turning Marius’ shirt into a snotty mess and recoiled from him, a hand to his face. “You’re okay,” he said, leaning down to grab the blanket off the floor. Damianus took it, burying his face in it and trying to breathe normally. Marius let him lean away as he did, rubbing absently at his leg.

_What happened to him? Is he going to get better? Is this the right thing to do? Am I making it worse?_

He looked awful still when he dropped the blanket, his face red and blotchy, eyes both bloodshot and deeply shadowed. Marius kneaded his shoulder a moment, and said quietly, “You should get some more sleep. You’ve been gone a solid week and don’t look like you’ve slept for a minute of it.”

Damianus shuddered, and Marius saw him try and keep hold of himself. But he broke again, with racking sobs that seemed to tear their way out. “No, come on.” Marius had to put his arms around him to get his attention, and he clung back. “Lay down. Lay down, it’s okay…”

He refused to let go, and Marius wound up with Damianus laying next to him, still hugging him close, his legs drawn up under Marius’ knees. He kept stroking at his hair until Damianus relaxed, head resting on his chest. “The ghosts,” Damianus managed, voice choked. “They didn’t—didn’t stay dead. Nowhere safe to…”

“You’re safe now,” Marius said, to a new flood of tears. But these didn’t seem so painful, not fought so hard. Relief?

_Am I helping? Am I making it worse? Is he going to be okay?_

“Elijah,” Damianus said, and tried to look up at Marius. He looked furious, even if his lip still shook. “The old man. I killed him. I fucking _killed_ him.”

He said it with a force that left Marius frowning, but _You’ve killed a lot of people_ didn’t seem tactful. “Who is Elijah?” he said instead.

Damianus’ eyes were going heavy, exhaustion finally overtaking his distress. “Caesar,” he slurred, and blinked. He shook his head weakly, settling it more comfortably on Marius’ shoulder. His lips moved faintly, but before he could finish the thought, his eyes were closed, and within a few breaths was breathing the slow deep draw of sleep. Half sitting up on the pillows, Marius just held on, a cheek pressed to the top of his head, rubbing his back, worried that if he moved, Damianus would wake again.

Rex had his chin on the bunk, ears back. Marius murmured to him, too, but couldn’t spare a hand to give him a pat. He lay down on the mattress on the floor and gave them both a worried look, only the very tip of his tail wagging when Marius told him what a good dog he was.

So, Damianus had killed people, in a place he hadn’t been able to sleep, because of ghosts. Someone named Christine was still alive, and the fact tore at him. Something about Marius and being eaten and a mutant dog. And he had killed… Caesar?

Marius knew the name that had come before Caesar, and Elijah wasn’t it. Another Caesar? Another warlord?

He shook his head a little, hoping Damianus would make more sense tomorrow, and looked down at him. They still had their arms around each other, warm against the bunker’s chill. They fit together like they belonged there—

He looked up at the ceiling instead, making his hands go still. His lips had been inches from Damianus’ forehead, his face, and for a second it hadn’t mattered if he woke him; it would just be another chance to tell him he was safe, that he could sleep now, for Marius to tell him that he—

Missed him. A friend. Had worried about him. Missed him.

His heartbeat felt like it would wake him, and he made himself breathe slower, count ceiling tiles as it calmed. Even with no one there to see, he felt guilty to be laying in bed with another man—another Legionary—and…

Marius knew he should move before he woke. But for now, he just held on to Damianus, running his fingers through his hair, and thanked what stars he had left that he had found him.

***

There was a shower and bathroom adjoining the bunks, behind a bulkhead. Marius had cleaned up while Damianus slept, and dozed on the other mattress—pulled further away, towards the table—or made whatever busy work came to mind until he heard him stir.

Damianus sat sharply up on the bed, rubbing his face, looking a little distantly at the room. Rex nosed at him, and he gave him an absent pat on the brain case as he looked at Marius. “How long was I out?”

“Two days, give or take,” Marius said from the mattress, closing one of the books he’d found. “Just had to outdo me, huh.”

The corners of his mouth tensed; far from a smile, but Marius was willing to take it. Damianus cleared his throat and asked, “Is there a bathroom?”

“And a shower,” Marius said, standing. Damianus had found his leg brace and clothes laying at the foot of the bed, and slung it all over his shoulder. Marius tried not to hover as he limped down the hall, leaning on the wall with his free hand.

He glanced back at Marius from time to time, but said nothing until he reached the barracks. “I don’t need you to—”

_”Wait a moment, before you go.”_

Marius nearly jumped out of his skin, the radio on the central table hissing to life. “It didn’t do that for me,” he muttered, and reached to turn it off, but Damianus caught his arm.

_”…Farewells can be a time of sadness. Letting go... difficult.”_

The woman’s voice was faintly familiar, from the broadcast they had followed here. Marius searched his face as he listened, his grip loosening. There were tears in his eyes again—was this Christine?

_”Love. Life... family, those to care for, and those who will care for you…”_

Marius looked down. Damianus’ hand was still resting lightly on his.

_”…To those who know these joys, the Sierra Madre holds little they don't already have.”_

He gently pulled free, looking away. Damianus was too enraptured to notice. Marius stood beside him, listening quietly, until the message started to loop. When it did, Damianus limped forward, shutting it off with a click. So faintly Marius thought he imagined it, he whispered, “Goodbye, Vera.”

The silence held a long moment, something in it both fragile and profound. Marius finally coughed and shifted his weight, breaking the spell. “Through there,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards the door, eyes on the floor as he turned to leave.

He stayed on the bare upper level while Damianus saw to his business. Rex lingered downstairs, giving Marius a chance to breathe while he put his things in order, try and figure out everything Dixie needed catching up on, and…

Sit with his head in his hands, groaning faintly to himself whenever…whatever that was…came to mind.

_You know exactly what it was, and you have a choice to make._

The door below clanked, and Marius sat up abruptly. By the time Damianus was coming up the stairs, Marius was leaning back on the wall, pretending to read, and gave him a brusque nod as he stood. “Better?”

Damianus stood with one foot on the top stair, looking at him. He was still pale, his eyes a little more sunken than before, but he looked more himself with a freshly-shaved scalp and his usual clothes. But the way he looked at Marius was…

He didn’t move as Damianus approached, putting his arms around him and pressing his face into the crook of his neck. A shiver went up his back, and after a moment of panic, Marius leaned into the embrace, holding him close and breathing him in. He fit in his arms like he belonged.

Damianus pulled away after a few seconds—an eternity, and not nearly long enough—and avoided Marius’ eyes as he reached for where he’d dropped his pack. In the dim light of the bunker, he could just make out the flush on his cheeks when he turned for the ladder out.

Marius stayed where he was a moment, leaning back on the wall. Rex paused on the stairs, looking at him and whining faintly. “Don’t tell anyone,” Marius said, feeling immensely stupid.

The dog just tipped his head and went to stand by the ladder. Damianus was already at the top, calling for him.

Marius pressed his hands to his face one last time, and went to join them both.


	7. Chapter 7

“Marius, I can’t _make_ it to Novac. Nelson is closer.”

His heart sank. “I know you need rest, so that makes Novac the better—”

Damianus stopped to cough, leaning on Rex as he made his way over the rocks. “Then you can go to Novac,” he croaked. “I don’t care. I can only make it as far as Nelson.”

And Marius couldn’t very well let him go alone.

Damianus was wavering on his feet as they neared the town, but refused Marius’ offers of support. Marius’ head hurt, and he fought not to clench his teeth, to keep his shoulders relaxed. It didn’t work, the tension creeping in at every footstep. He kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to look up, knowing what would still be at the center of town.

Knowing it was his fault.

There was a shout from the watchtower, and the two of them scuffed to a halt. Marius raised his head long enough for the lookout to get a clear view of his face through his binoculars. He leaned over to confer with another Legionary, and after a moment, waved for them to enter. Damianus stumbled as he stepped forward, and he didn’t protest this time when Marius caught him, coughing as he leaned on his arm. The resident Legionaries watched them, playing lookout lower down or else just sitting idle, but none approached as they made their way to the barracks. A few even stepped out of the way, moving upwind.

It suited Marius fine, even if his stomach sank—he hadn’t considered that Damianus might be truly sick. But some of the overall unease faded as he helped Damianus inside, got him laid down in the bunk nearest the door. He looked feverish, pale except for a splotchy flush on his cheeks, eyes glassy and half-open. Marius helped him hold his canteen to his lips as he drank. “Do you think you can eat?”

“Maybe,” Damianus said, his voice still rasping. He cleared his throat. “Can you talk to someone here, see what the situation is?”

Marius leaned on the rail of the upper bunk. “I could,” he said, after a pause. “But even if I did, you couldn’t do anything about it. You need rest.”

“I’m fine,” Damianus said, making it a lie with another coughing fit. Marius tried to help him take another sip, but he pulled the canteen away. “Go… Do something useful,” he said, scowling. “Since I’m stuck here, one of us has to do our duties.”

Marius drew back, not looking at him as he pushed away. He knew where the mess was, and made his way over as quickly as he could without seeming to rush. He had to pass the platform in the middle of town, and tried to shut his ears to a couple of Legionaries looking up at the one empty cross. “They have a checkpoint not two minutes up the road. We could fill the space, maybe take that Ranger leading them…”

His stomach turned, and the door to the mess banged as he stepped in. A couple men were sitting in the corner, and gave him a dirty look before resuming their conversation. Marius didn’t spare them a glance—anything else would invite a confrontation. Instead, he swallowed the bile in the back of his throat and steeled himself against what there was to see on the table against the back wall.

Ah, yes, some solid ‘we don’t have slaves to cook for us and nobody wants to be called a sissy for cooking’ fare. Literally solid—Marius grabbed a grubby spoon and bowl from the stack and pried some of it out of the pot, avoiding the parts that would have burned down against the hot plate. Looked to have been mostly canned beans, and a few handfuls of whatever meat and vegetables they’d been able to forage. Marius could have done better with the lint in the bottom of his pack. But it was edible, broadly speaking, and the line between being camp hero for producing a decent meal and being harassed for doing women’s work was a line he didn’t feel like walking right now. Marius filled two bowls and grabbed a couple bottles of water before heading back out.

There were two contubernia here, sixteen Legionaries all told. It sounded like a pathetic number, but only underscored how poorly-trained and undermanned the NCR army was, if that was all it took to hold the town. Marius kept his head down as he walked—sixteen Legionaries might not seem like much in the face of an enemy nation, but that made for sixteen men who might know him on sight and have questions he didn’t want to answer.

And sure enough… “Is that… Marius! Where have you been?”

One of the men was waving to him, beckoning him closer. Marius considered ignoring him, but a few other people were looking, and there was no getting out of it. “Fusus,” he called back, without any great enthusiasm. He was a few years younger than Marius, hardly out of his teens, but the only memory Marius could dredge up of him was here in Nelson, laughing as he charged at the NCR troopers with their backs to the cliffs— “I’ve had assignments elsewhere,” he said, holding the bowls tighter to hide the shake in his hands. “Don’t tell me everyone’s just sat around here since we took this place. Are you trying to get assigned to the Temple Guard?”

A few of them gave him a horrified look before breaking into laughter, and blonde-haired Fulvius shrugged. “It might be more interesting than sitting here just to give the Bear the finger,” he said, in a voice that had never quite broken. “Heard a rumor Vulpes wanted a word with you. Is there something big coming up?”

The rest looked at Marius eager, bored, frustrated in their idleness like a wire being drawn slowly tighter. “Frumentarii business,” he said, tossing his head a little to help hide a shudder. “Spend long enough in the enemy’s ranks, and you end up with a few things to report.” _Like that you’re a traitor…_

“Forlorn Hope’s just on the horizon,” Fusus said, leaning in. “Dead Sea keeps saying if we move on it, we’re vulnerable at this camp, but I bet if we had a Frumentarius to set them up like you did here…”

_It doesn’t work like that, imbecile._ Marius’ irritation almost drowned out his anxiety for a moment, but he recovered enough to say, “If it involves you, you’ll know. Until then, sit tight.” A couple of the men listening in grumbled to themselves as they lost interest, and Marius looked theatrically into the top bowl. “Now, I plan to sit down and have a nice meal, except I couldn’t find one and am stuck with… Just _who_ was in charge of this travesty?”

“Paetus,” Fulvius said. “Used an injury to get put on light duty, but he kept putting out meals like that, so decanus has him digging latrines. I think that pot’s been sitting a while…”

“I don’t even need the spoon,” Marius said, shaking his head as he headed for the barracks. There was a shadow on the ground that he had to pass under, stretched long in the evening sun, and he made himself hold a steady stride. It might have been his imagination, but the shadow of the crosses were cold, far colder than they should have been, and had a weight that lingered on his skin and made him shiver.

Damianus opened his eyes as the door swung shut. Marius passed him a bowl and water with shaking hands and half-sat on the table between the bunks, head down, staring at his meal. He didn’t look up until Damianus said, in tones of suspicion and horror, “What _is_ this?”

He was holding a piece of it up for inspection, a solid hunk of god-knew-what. “I don’t know,” Marius said. “But I had better things to do than screw around with cooking.”

“Good,” Damianus took a bite, made a face, and picked up another piece anyway. “It’s not part of your duties.”

He watched him a moment, then turned back to his own food. Mercifully, it was bland enough to get through without too much effort, but needed the whole bottle of water to be edible. Marius wouldn’t have noticed if had started to rot. All he could think of was the crosses. He hadn’t looked up, _coward,_ hadn’t seen who they’d put there to replace the ones who would have died by now, from the first battle at Nelson. He hadn’t had the decency to own his part in it, to witness as they died slow, suffocating deaths in the heat and cold of the Mojave…

“Go talk to the decanus here if you’re done,” Damianus said, and Marius started away, one of the table legs squeaking. “I’ve been gone too long. I need to know what the state of things is.”

“You’re sick, Damianus. Let it go for one day.” Marius finished the last few bites without tasting them. “Rest. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m thinking fine,” he snapped. Still laying down, he pushed himself onto his elbows. “And I _think_ you need to go out there and get a report from whoever’s in charge of this camp, because we have more work to do.”

Marius stared at him, breathing hard, still exhausted and sickly. He could still see the red marks on his neck from the explosive collar, how he favored his left arm from the bear-trap wound. Marius looked him in the eye, trying to get a read on him. “I thought we were going to discuss…”

“Do your duty by helping me do mine.” Damianus took a breath, let it go as he flopped back down. “I am _ordering_ you to—”

_“Ordering?”_

“If that’s what it takes!” Damianus pointed to the door. “Go find—”

_”Don’t make me go out there again.”_

Damianus drew away, lip starting to pull into a snarl as he and Marius stared at each other. The expression softened fractionally, and he pressed his mouth into a thin, unhappy line as he looked away.

Marius slouched against the table, staring out one of the windows. Early evening was drawing in, and he could hear some of the Legionaries without tasks for the night approaching the barracks. If anything was going to be said, it needed to be now—but Marius couldn’t bring himself to face him.

What had _happened_ to him, in the Madre?

The voices outside were getting closer, and Marius straightened, reaching for the ladder to the bunk above Damianus. 

“Whatever you did here, it was your duty,” Damianus said. Marius looked down, frowning. He looked back up, his face grim and unreadable. “That’s all. If you’re going to let that eat at you, you need to take a long, hard look at yourself and what you are.”

All he could do was stare. Slowly, Marius let go of the ladder. The door opened as he did, letting in the noise of the other men, and he crossed to room to an empty bunk, out of speaking distance.

***

Their progress back towards Camp McCarran was slow. Damianus was recovering by inches, but pushing himself too far, too fast, in Marius’ opinion.

Not that Damianus cared for his opinion.

”We’re Legionaries, Marius. We’ll rest when we’re ordered to or when we’re dead.”

Night was already falling as they made their way up Highway 95. “We’re Legionaries, and we can camp anywhere on this stretch without a problem,” Marius said.

“Scared of the dark?” Damianus said.

His tone was less scathing than he could have been, but Marius had to take a breath to put his hackles down. “Scared of what happens when some hopped-up Jackal comes out of the dark at you. Or a night stalker. Or a feral ghoul.” Keeping his voice matter-of-fact, he played his trump card. “You’re a liability in this state, and you’ll get us both killed if something happens.”

Damianus slowed, stopped. “We should have been in McCarran days ago.”

“Then they can wait one more while we get there alive.”

It was still light enough that he could see Damianus’ expression, eyes cast down as he thought. Finally his mouth twisted like he’d bitten a lemon. “We’ll get as far as 188.”

They did, without incident, even as Damianus’ feet dragged and Marius kept an eye to their west, hearing a pack of coyotes howling behind a ridge. Once they stood in the pool of light made by the old burn barrel, Marius let his weapons go. He almost gave Damianus a pat on the arm but thought better of it, waving to the trailers. “Go rest. I’ll bring you something.”

He shook his head, digging after a pouch of caps. “I want to check on the Forecaster.”

“That weird kid? He’s probably asleep.” Marius glanced at the trader, sitting behind the makeshift bar. He had woken from a doze, chin in hand, and at his look raised his eyebrows and stared off into the distance. Marius turned his back to him, lowering his voice. “Dixie, can we talk? I’m…” _Worried about you._ He sighed. “We just need to talk.”

Damianus hadn’t stopped rummaging in his bag. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He brushed past Marius, towards the counter. “You already convinced me to stop here. That’s the only compromise I’m going to make tonight.”

Marius sat at one of the picnic tables while the merchant pulled something together for him. Damianus paused as he took the bowls, and Marius shrugged. “I’ll keep watch up here.” Damianus pressed his lips a little thinner, but headed for the underpass, a little slowly.

He tossed down a few caps for a meal of his own, once Damianus was out of sight. The merchant only grunted before passing him a plate Marius didn’t much care to inspect, and said, “I’ll be turning in then, unless there’s anything else you need.”

“This should do,” Marius said, hefting his Nuka at him. The man nodded, and Marius took a seat at the table again as he went through a half-asleep routine of locking containers and shutting off lights before heading to a closed trailer.

Marius resisted the urge to look down into the underpass after Damianus, automatically digging into his food. He didn’t want to talk? Fine. Understandable, even, given… the shape he’d been in, when he’d returned. If their duty was the topic in question, he could have let it go, even as the memory of Damianus saying he had killed _Caesar_ echoed in his head, from time to time. _That_ begged for more explanation.

Especially with the promise of talking about leaving the Legion, before he had vanished.

He realized he was staring at his plate, something with rubbery mantis claws and rather overcooked vegetables—the merchant had probably been waiting up to get rid of them, rather than throw them away. He downed the last few bites, not tasting it, and pushed it away to fold his arms on the table.

Marius didn’t want to push Damianus, not in the state he was in. But the closer they got to McCarran—the more errands they ran for the Legion—the deeper they would dig themselves, and the harder it would be to escape.

And that seemed to be exactly where Damianus was heading, with his talk of duty. He sighed through his nose, frustrated. If he tried to argue, all he would get was that stony face again, another _order,_ after so long being treated as an equal. After being treated as a friend.

After falling asleep with him in his arms. After holding him for that one, brief eternity, like he couldn’t find the words to express…

Did he regret it? Want to deny it ever happened, and go back to the Legion, to where the rules were simple and clear cut, and left no room for these…complications?

There were footsteps coming up from the underpass, and Marius slouched further against the picnic table. He should talk to him. _Make_ him discuss it, come what may, before they moved on—even if it meant…

Would it be enough to drive him away?

_What had happened in the Madre,_ to change him like this?

He didn’t look up as Damianus took a seat on the opposite bench, leaning back on the tabletop, not directly across from him. _I want to talk,_ Marius tried to say, or at least thought and hoped the words would find their way out on their own. But if they did talk? He lost either way, Damianus getting defensive and shutting him down, or turning it into a discussion of _duty_ again.

“Are we staying the night? Or moving on?”

Marius looked up under his brow. Damianus was frowning at him, a little more deeply than his usual, neutral expression. “You agreed to rest here,” was all Marius said.

Damianus nodded. He was still looking at him with a line between his brows, and almost…waiting. Marius stared back, searching his face for a cue, some tip-off to how he was actually feeling. How far he could take a conversation, before it became a fight.

But seeing as the subject of his study was Damianus, all he got from it was stoic silence. Finally, he dropped his eyes. “I’m gonna go sleep,” he said, voice a little dry.

Damianus frowned deeper still, looking away, and Marius felt it like a knife in his chest, even if he didn’t sit back down. He stopped once he was out of sight behind the trailers and grabbed his head with both hands, fear and anger rising up in equal parts. It was all stupid! Damianus was stupid! He was stupid! They were both fucking _idiots!_

He just about threw himself down on the furthest mattress, looking up through a hole in the ceiling. There was something wrong with Damianus and he was stupid for not telling him! And _he_ was stupid for not knowing what to do!

All of this was stupid. He could refuse to go to McCarran with him, see if that bought time, if it made him stop and think. But more likely, he would just go on without him, alone, and something about that…

It wasn’t just that he’d be going to assassinate a prisoner of war, though the idea turned his stomach. Soft, weak, coward that he was.

It would mean abandoning Damianus. Abandoning a man he owed his life, who had been…_hurt_ in a way he didn’t understand, and he wasn’t about to leave to face it alone.

He watched a star seem to come loose from the sky. You were supposed to be able to wish on those, some old myth went, but he’d heard someone else say they were usually satellites, man-made things, falling out of orbit. He didn’t think a wish made on a piece of some long-dead garbage was very likely to come true.

He stared after it a moment anyway, before rolling over to try and rest.

***

The Aerotech office park was only a brief stop on their way west, yet another NCR-controlled soft target that deserved only a cursory check. Damianus stuck his nose in few of its more obvious corners—most containing a sad mix of drugged and destitute residents—before writing it off as a low priority and heading back for the entrance. Something caught his eye in one of the many piles of junk, and he detoured for a better look.

“…and a girl, she’s sixteen. They would have taken them to Cottonwood, the Rangers said…”

Palming his find, Damianus watched the man looking hopefully at Marius, leaning on the wall by the gate. Marius shrugged. “Sorry, haven’t seen them. We don’t deal with the Legion. I’ll keep an eye out though.”

“Right.” The man’s shoulders sagged. “Well… Thanks, I guess.”

Marius caught sight of Damianus and looked immediately away, pushing off from the wall. Damianus couldn’t demand more from him, not…not with the way things were. Not with so many things in Damianus’ head.

Things like, _Marius must hate me right now._

Or, _I’m scared for him and don’t know how to keep him safe._

Nevertheless, Marius fell in a step behind as Damianus pushed the gate open, the morning sun behind them as they made their way to McCarran. He could hear him lose ground a little, listless, and Damianus half turned to watch him. Marius had his hand in his pockets, looking moodily back at the office park, like he had a mind to return.

“It’s better he doesn’t know.” Damianus didn’t look away as Marius faced him. “We haven’t been to Cottonwood in a while, it’s just as likely they’ve been sold off.”

Marius grunted. He _couldn’t_ ask more of him, when Marius was already furious, but when a bridge was already burning… “At least in the Legion they’ll have purpose,” Damianus said, facing forward. “We all have our sacrifices to make, for a better future for others.”

It sounded hollow. It _felt_ hollow, even as it felt like the only thing he had to hold on to anymore.

So when Marius snarled at his back, “You never had a family to _be_ sacrificed,” Damianus stopped dead.

Damianus turned. Marius stood hunched on himself, dropping his eyes and turning his face like he wanted to hide it in his jacket collar. He started to shake his head, shifting his weight to walk, but Damianus stepped into his path. “Why do you always make this harder than it is?” Marius tried to look away again, and Damianus kept moving, staying in his line of sight. “Are we going to have a pissing match now, over which of us has had it worse? If we are, then I forfeit now. Of the two of us, _I_ am the one who can accept that we need to make personal sacrifice for a greater good.”

Marius’ mouth worked for a second. “You don’t even know what you’ve lost—”

“And I’m better for it!” He thought of Ridley looking him in the eye, and it was like a punch in the chest to realize how hazy and half-remembered her face was. He bared his teeth. “It’s kept _me_ from the selfishness that almost got _you_ executed once, that keeps you dragging your feet and accepting that you have a _duty,_ Marius.”

He was looking at him like a stranger, leaning away. The hurt in Damianus’ chest redoubled, and he took a breath, accepting it. If this was what it took to make him understand, to keep him safe, so be it. “I told you the moment we met how I was going to try and help you. You've always known that, so why do you always have to make it harder?” His voice was rougher than he liked, and he told himself it was just damage from the Cloud, made worse by talking so long. “Is this a game to you? Do you just tag along because it's fun to watch me do this little dance?”

Damianus realized how hard he was gripping the bit of junk from Aerotech and let it fall in the dirt, looking at the marks the piece of steel cable had left in his palm. “Come on,” he said, wiping his hand on his shirt as he turned. “We have a job to do.”

He almost didn’t expect Marius to follow, but he heard slow footsteps behind him as they crested a shallow hill, putting McCarran on the horizon. He let out a breath. They had a traitor to kill. Maybe that didn’t sit well with Marius. Maybe—and he flinched from the thought—maybe it would remind him what the price of disobedience was.

Though he was fairly sure Marius already knew.

His footsteps came closer, slowly. Marius’ voice was soft when he asked, “What happened, in the Madre?”

What happened?

Damianus couldn’t speak, and forced himself to keep walking. What had happened? That he’d been forced to realize he’d spent his entire life getting his hands dirty for tyrants, for old men who didn’t care if he lived or died? That in doing it, he thought he’d gotten the only person who had ever cared for him killed?

That he had walked back to the Mojave ready to kill Caesar with his own hands, to take all the Legion had taught him and use it to avenge Marius and everything else Damianus had lost?

That he had found Marius alive, and that the thought of losing him again, for any reason, of failing him…?

The two of them were a stone’s throw from Camp McCarran’s gate before Damianus realized he hadn’t answered. “In the Madre,” he started, and had to clear his throat. “I did what I always do. I obeyed.”

Another two steps. “And you survived,” Marius said, not making it a question.

Damianus could only nod. Survived, but…

He stopped short at a touch on his arm, stalling a reflexive yank away. Marius had caught him just above the elbow, loose enough that Damianus could have shaken him off, but firm enough that he never wanted to, his heart almost beating out of his chest.

Marius had his eyes cast down, only meeting his for a moment as he said, very softly, “I’m sorry.”

He gave his arm a gentle squeeze that almost put Damianus flat out on the ground. He couldn’t move as Marius let go, stepping past him to lead the way into McCarran’s gates.

***

Marius didn’t recognize Silus.

It made things easier, from the standpoint of their duty—Silus had no way to expect what was coming, couldn’t alert the lieutenant talking with Damianus that something was wrong. It _should_ have made it easier for other reasons, made it all feel cold, impersonal. He was a traitor, and deserved to die for the Legion’s security.

Which led to the thought, _he’s a Legionary, and the world will be better off without him._

And Marius, a Legionary, was going to make that happen.

“I think if you rough him up enough and really put some fear into him, he'll sing like a choir boy,” Boyd was saying, arms folded as she filled Damianus in. “So which of you wants to go first?”

Damianus was about to step forward, but Marius beat him to it. “I’ve got this one,” he said, and Damianus looked sharply at him.

“Alright,” The lieutenant rubbed her hands together. “We’ll go back and forth a couple times; you go in and make him regret the day he was born, I go in and play good cop and give him a chance to spill. I’ll start, let him work himself up a bit.”

She waved to the soldier standing guard on the cell door, set into a wall that had been replaced with a sheet of heavy glass. Probably bulletproof, Marius figured; the chance of one of the NCR’s own taking revenge was a little too high. It would add to his cover.

When she was through, Damianus leaned closer. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

_Nothing is stopping you from walking away._

He looked over at him, picked out the worry in the set of his mouth, in the bit of shadow behind those gray eyes. “I have to,” was all he could say.

“He’s all yours. Should behave himself, on pain of pain if he hits you back,” Boyd said, the door closing behind her. “But I’ll need you to surrender your weapons. Remember, we want him full of regrets and broken teeth, not dead, and if he gets hold of anything you brought in…”

“Of course.” Marius handed over his rifle and machete, a couple knives. The private manning the door cleared him with a quick pat-down, and he stepped into the cell.

Silus gave him an almost bored look. They’d left him his armor, probably to avoid the violence of taking it rather than any sort of respect, and Marius sized him up in turn, looking for gaps, weak spots, anything he could use.

“What an ugly little worm you are,” Silus said, leaning comfortably back in his chair. “What pile of—”

His head snapped to the side at the blow, and Silus gasped. “You don’t get to talk unless it’s what we want to hear.” _Play the game. Don’t make this too sudden._ “You’re really the best Caesar has to offer? Prove it.” He said it with a soft _c, See-zer,_ for the sake of the listening troopers.

Silus straightened up with a sneer. “I have nothing to say to—”

He’d fallen out of practice with his hand-to-hand fighting, but a punch was a punch, so long as you knew how to land it. Silus barely had time to raise a hand to his bleeding nose before Marius hit him again, head slamming into the concrete behind him. He raised an arm to block the next blow, and Marius took advantage, grabbing at his wrist and throwing his weight against his elbow, forcing the joint the wrong direction.

“Enough,” the centurion snarled, surging to his feet—he wasn’t much stronger than Marius, but was taller and heavier, and had the weight of his armor. Marius was forced back a step, and came back with an uppercut that brought Silus’ teeth together with an unsettling _crunch._

“Now boys, play nice.” Boyd waved Marius out, giving him a discreet thumbs-up where Silus couldn’t see. She stood across from him as he sank back down, rubbing his jaw. “I warned you about hitting back, Silus.”

“You won’t kill me,” he said. Blood was running from his nose and mouth, slurring his words. “You would disgrace yourself, letting someone as valuable as me die.”

“It’s amazing what can be forgiven as self-defense…”

Marius wiped his knuckles clean on his shirt, not looking at Damianus. “Let me go in,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.

“No,” Marius said. His heart was pounding, but his hands were steady. A coldness seemed to have settled on him, and he had to swallow before he could speak again. “I need to…”

“Still having fun?” The door sealed behind Boyd, and she looked him up and down. “Because I think he misses you. Head on back in.”

“You’re getting nothing from me,” Silus said, before the door had even closed. He put up his arms to block again—not so sloppy this time, tight to his head to keep Marius from leveraging it. But the guard was high, and Marius swept a kick at his unprotected ribs. Silus winced, nearly slipping off the side of the chair. “What? No witty banter? I thought you were trying to make me _talk,_ degenerate.”

His weight was on his far leg, and Marius took a stomp at his knee, sending him tumbling. The chair toppled, and Marius kicked it away.

The feeling of cold had knotted itself somewhere in his belly, watching him climb back to his feet. Marius hooked one of his arms out from under him when he was halfway up, and he had to grab the wall to stay upright. Toying with him. Taunting him.

He felt sick.

_—need to do this, I need to do this, I need to prove I can—_

“You think this will help you?” Silus said, swaying as he rose. “This is nothing, compared to the Legion’s training.”

Marius slammed him hard against the wall, getting a grip on his armor. He was close enough to look him in the eye and whisper, “I know.”

He hit him once, twice—and Silus gathered his wits enough to try and shove him back. Marius turned with it, letting go, rather than let it land and have the lieutenant intervene. There was dawning fear in the centurion’s eyes. He sidestepped the next blow, sluggishly, starting to wear down.

Dying. Or would be, soon.

Silus tried to back away, and Marius turned to keep him in sight. Beyond him, through the glass, Boyd was poised, ready to drop her hand and signal the private to open the door.

Beside her, Damianus was staring at him in wide-eyed horror.

He turned back to Silus. “I am useless to Caesar dead,” he hissed, blood bubbling as he spoke. Marius didn’t reply, moving to close the distance. Silus’ composure broke, and he turned to the glass. “Lieutenant—!”

It was like a weight had been lifted. Now or never.

They were moving on the other side of the glass, but too slowly. Silus took an uncoordinated swipe at him, and Marius caught his arm, stepping under it and twisting so he leaned forward to relieve the pressure, even as he struggled.

_True to Caesar—_ but they would be listening for it, too familiar a phrase. As the door opened, he gave Silus’ arm one last wrench and whispered, _“Mors tua, vita mea.”_

He tried to straighten as Marius let go, but only added more force to the blow, the heel of Marius’ hand connecting with the base of his skull. Somewhere distant and clinical, he felt as much as heard the flat _crack_ of bones breaking.

The body hadn’t even finished falling before there were hands on him, dragging him out of the cell. Marius nearly fell, walking on legs that didn’t belong to him. He was vaguely aware of spit on his cheek, Boyd’s face inches from his, shouting what should have been words but were just a shrill ringing in his ears.

She had the presence of mind to step back as he coughed, and he managed to lean on the wall and almost get to his knees before heeling over to puke. _Why are there so many boots here,_ he thought inanely, gasping for air. More people had rushed in at the commotion, and Damianus stood between him and them, but all the noise was just noise, and the words were slow to resolve.

Marius managed to sit back against the wall, trying to focus, stuck staring blankly at all of them. Boyd was leaning down to speak to him, her voice hard and angry, but no longer shouting. Something clicked somewhere, looking at her officer’s beret, and he raised a shaking hand to his head. “C-Corporal…Alex Rojas…”

She straightened up, disgusted, saying something sharp to Damianus. “He just got carried away,” he said. He glanced back at Alex—at Marius—and continued a little lower. “Look, I know he’s lost a lot of people, but he’s never talked about it with me. I had no way of knowing he’d snap like that…”

“I know him, Lieutenant,” another woman said, coming up beside her. Reed went on, “An acquaintance. Apparently he was at Nelson.”

Boyd narrowed her eyes. “Nobody survived Nelson.”

Marius managed to mumble, “AWOL…”

“No. The term you want now is _desertion—”_

He put his head back and let Damianus argue it. Maybe they’d kill him, he thought numbly. There was something ironic about that, after doing this to keep the Legion from executing him. He opened his eyes to tell Damianus that he’d prefer a firing squad to crucifixion, but he was speaking. “Lieutenant, look at him. You literally can’t do anything worse to him than what he’s already living.”

Lieutenant Boyd was staring down at him again, nearly furious enough to do to him what he’d done to Silus. “Get him out of my sight. Either of you shows your face here again, it’s gonna be the last thing you do,” she said at last, and turned to storm out of the room. “Fuck, what am I going to tell the Colonel…”

Damianus let her get out of earshot, and a few of the onlookers followed, whispering, before he turned back to him. He held out his hands, and Marius took them weakly, letting Damianus pull him to his feet. “Are you alright?”

“No,” Marius said, not even pausing to think. Behind Damianus, a pair of soldiers were dragging the body out of the cell. Marius reached for Damianus, trying to push him along, but a shudder left him bowed over, clutching at him. “I want to leave,” he whispered, forehead nearly resting on his shoulder.

“I know.” Damianus’ voice was tight. “I know. I’ve got your things.” He rubbed at his back before stepping away. “Just come with me. Come on.”

And Marius, with nowhere left to go, followed.


	8. Chapter 8

Damianus managed to keep his face neutral as he stepped into Caesar’s tent. One of the Praetorians’ dogs snuffled at him from where it sat, the Praetorian himself giving him an indifferent look behind his sunglasses. Ahead, Caesar was leaning aside to speak with Vulpes, who gave he and Marius a sidelong look as they approached.

He stopped a respectful distance away, waiting to be called forward. To one side, the head of his Praetorians, Lucius, gestured to Marius, who went to him. But Caesar took his time, and Damianus swallowed to keep a rising anger in check. How dare he. How dare he lounge on a throne while he sent men to die for him. How dare he turn and give him a smug, superior grin, when he was the reason Damianus’ own mother was a slave somewhere in this very camp.

How dare he sleep at night, when he was the reason he and Marius had suffered so long.

“It's reached me that you killed Silus before he could talk. I approve,” Caesar said, gesturing him closer. Vulpes took a step back to hover at his shoulder, face scrupulously calm but with the hint of a frown. “Vulpes got word from our spy there that it was your companion who did the deed, while diverting suspicion. I will extend the protection of my Mark to him, for now.”

Vulpes’ expression grew distinctly sour.

“But enough of sentiment,” he said, almost sounding playful. Damianus had the sudden urge to reach forward and grab him by the head, slamming his face into the arm of his throne. “I want you to forge an alliance between Caesar's Legion and the White Glove Society. They used to be cannibals. I expect that information can be used to manipulate them. Go to—_Goddamn it…”_

He broke off with a gasp, clutching at his head. Vulpes leaned away slightly, and Lucius, examining the howitzer mechanism Marius had handed him, barely looked over. “Go to…the…” Caesar struggled to speak, and finally lurched to his feet, grating, “Fuck this. Go away. Come back when I’ve had some sleep.”

No one else seemed to react, so Damianus stood rooted, unsure of what to do. One of the Praetorians pulled aside the drape to the sleeping area at the back of the tent, looking away as his leader staggered past. Taking the mechanism, Lucius looked hard at both of them. “Speak of this to no one,” he said, waiting for a confirmation from he and Marius before heading after Caesar.

They made their way out before Vulpes gathered himself enough to stop them, but made their way down the hill outside a little slowly. The rest of them had acted like it had happened before, had learned the hard way not to comment, and Damianus’ mind raced—Caesar was ill? Failing? Had it happened often, or…?

Damianus kept turning over thoughts, not seeing the path down the hill until they were safely out of earshot, when he heard a mutter from behind him, _”His_ head hurts.”

He turned. Marius had the heel of his hand pressed over his eye, a sardonic look on his face. “At least you’re less dramatic about it,” Damianus said. He started to face forward, then quickly looked back. “That wasn’t a challenge.”

Marius didn’t really smile, but dropped his hand with a faint snort, the liveliest he’d been since…

Killing Silus had been their duty. It had been necessary, and seemed to have restored Marius’ place in Caesar’s Legion. He should have been relieved.

Instead he kept thinking of him sitting on the floor after, sick and staring, and wished he had let him do it.

As they walked, Damianus caught a glimpse of Marius stuffing his hands in his pockets, facing away from a Legionary standing outside the Arena. “Ignore him,” he muttered.

“Damianus!” Otho, the Arena coordinator, was closing in on them. Damianus stopped, and he heard Marius sigh. “I have a challenge for you,” he went on, “since I get the feeling Marius here found it beneath him to pass it along. But my star performer, our captive Ranger, brought down a centurion barehanded not too long ago. There hasn’t been a single challenge here since, and some of the men are saying you’re generally willing to show off. What do you say?”

There was no ready excuse, with their next orders waiting on Caesar and his health. “Later, maybe,” he said. “Tell your Ranger he gets to rest a while longer.”

Still half turned away, Marius murmured, _”She.”_ Damianus frowned.

“And of course I wouldn’t dare bother _you_ with the offer again,” Otho said, turning on Marius. “I overheard something about you at McCarran and a dead centurion, but you would never stoop so low as to—”

Marius paled, shifting his weight and squaring up, headache or no. Damianus stepped between them. “Neither of us is here to waste our time showboating for your pleasure,” he said shortly. “Ether find a duty that doesn’t involve harassing your peers, or catch the next ferry to Cottonwood and try your pitch out on the profligates, you have good odds at annoying them into submission.”

Otho all but pouted as they left, and Damianus heard him mutter _”Frumentarii,”_ under his breath like a curse. Damianus didn’t rise to it, but saw Marius slow a step, like he was thinking of turning back.

“He’s not worth the effort,” Damianus said. “He spends so long standing around here these days, you could probably just push him over.”

A sigh from Marius, and his hands were back in his pockets. “He gets on my nerves,” he said, voice low as they passed through the gates to the rest of the Fort. “He mentioned that before, though. About you fighting in the Arena. Had a bit of a reputation.”

Damianus kept his eyes on his feet, spinning the silence out by picking his way across the planks that had been sunk into the dirt, forming stairs. “I did,” he said. One of the planks shifted as he put his weight on it, and he was silent until they hit the bottom of the hill. There had always been some big dumb bully who thought it was funny to pick on the short kid, and Damianus’ contubernia would, to a man, sit back and grin as the newcomer tried. Not all of them went to the arena, but those that did were a point of pride to them.

He realized he’d fallen silent as they walked, and glanced over at Marius. His attention seemed to have wandered, rubbing at his eyes, and Damianus let it go. No use in digging up the past now. “There’s vacant tents in the western quarter,” Damianus said. “We ought to report for our orders as soon as possible tomorrow.”

“Provided Caesar doesn’t…” Damianus glanced back at Marius, but he shook his head. “Nothing.”

_Provided Caesar doesn’t die in his sleep?_ It sounded like something Marius would say, just the right blend of loathing and bad sense, for him to blurt it out in the middle of a Legion stronghold. A sentiment that put fear worming up Damianus’ back, at the same time as he imagined it happening with something like fascination.

But Marius hadn’t voiced it. Damianus doubted it was mere restraint that had held him back, or at least, not the sort of restraint that Damianus had hoped to teach him, once upon a time.

Their path took them past the brahmin pen, and Damianus checked himself from staring at the slaves tending it. _I’ll help you._ That had been weeks ago now, but he hadn’t heard of any kind of escape attempts—at least, none so large as to be worth gossiping about—no other commotion, nothing about slaves mysteriously going missing. Something awful grew in his chest at the thought, equal parts fear and shame—what if she had been found out, and crucified with no one to mourn her, no one but other slaves to look up and say _Better her than me…_

And shame, not just if he had failed her, but because… What if she was still waiting? What did she think of him?

“Damianus?” Marius had gotten ahead of him as he stopped to think. “Do you _want_ to sleep with the _brahmin?”_ he said slowly and patiently, like he’d already repeated himself a few times.

He shook his head and caught up. Marius gave him a look as he did, concern making its way around the pain. Damianus waved him away a little, and pointed to a clearing between the tents, several tables set up in it, campfires along one edge. They filed through, collecting bowls of what could be best summed up as “stew with identifiable meat,” a luxury when you had a finite amount of food to stretch between a seemingly endless number of men.

They found a tent with a few unclaimed bedrolls tucked neatly against the sides, using them as seats as they ate. Damianus barely tasted it, thoughts boiling over in his head. Caesar’s sudden pain, and his closest men acting like it was a normal occurrence. _I’ll help you—_He hadn’t been much help so far, had he, trying to cover his own ass. _You don’t have to die for being scared—_ No, but he could live in fear and misery.

He licked out the bowl automatically, staring into it, and considering another if they were still serving—their next meal was never guaranteed. Beside him, Marius had only half-finished his, picking idly with a spoon as he stared off into space with Rex sniffing hopefully at the edge of it. Damianus waved a hand in front of his face. “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten fussy about your food.”

_He likes it better when a pretty girl made it just for him,_ and Damianus fought to squelch the thought, and the aching jealousy that rose up with it.

Marius just pointed with his spoon. A small caravan was approaching up the lane between campsites, almost lost in the bustle of the rest of the Fort. A figure in white was at its head, a red shawl pinned around her shoulders. She turned as a slave approached, holding an infant in her arms, and the sheer veil over her face fluttered in the breeze. Behind her, the caravan was some dozen female slaves, visibly pregnant or carrying at least one child. A couple Praetorians wandered up and down the line, carrying machetes rather than power fists, and another stood just off the Priestess’s shoulder.

Several of the Legionaries crossing between the tents were deliberately slow to move out of their way, not about to stand a side for a mere woman, and the Priestess’s caravan took its time moving across the camp. At least one infant was wailing, and Damianus could hear a handful of men grumbling about it. “They’re going to take them all the way back to Flagstaff?” he said, mostly thinking aloud.

“Hackberry,” Marius said, giving his food another poke. “They recently set up a Temple there, just so we don’t have a bunch of brats underfoot in a forward camp.” He took one last forced bite and held out the bowl to Rex. Taking a better sniff, he licked his lips and turned his nose up at it.

Damianus shrugged and took it instead. He waited a few bites before he said, “I wasn’t aware. Had you been out there recently?”

Marius hesitated, then shook his head. He seemed to instantly regret the motion, raising a hand with a wince. “On my courier route before I was stationed here,” he said, looking out between his fingers as he massaged his forehead.

Damianus nodded. All the children in the caravan were small—less than two years, for all he knew of children, and probably too small to do any meaningful work. The Priestess was taking notes for each new member of her entourage, paging through a little leather-bound book as she wrote. He remembered, dimly, that there had been priestesses…a long time ago. Was there a little book somewhere that had _Damianus_ written in it? Or…Some other name?

_Ridley would know—_But that was a slippery slope. To help Ridley was to risk their status with the Legion, and risk Marius’ life. There was a bitterness to the thought that made him turn away, taking Marius out of the corner of his vision—it wasn’t as if he seemed to care what Damianus had sacrificed for him.

A veteran decanus walked past them with a woman in tow, heading for the caravan. She had a white skirt on, rather than whatever rags got thrown to the slaves; a proper wife, a gift from Caesar. She was so heavily pregnant that she moved awkwardly, one hand on her back and the other supporting her belly as she followed her husband. Owner. Whichever. Damianus looked away.

Trying to distract himself, he said, “Only the young children,” not quite making it a question. Marius raised his eyebrows a little. “You weren’t that young.”

“No,” he said—without shaking his head. “Sweeps like this happen every few months, so none of the kids are too old. I was…” He looked around them, aware of how close the other tents were, men just out of sight. “It’s a toss-up on where tribal kids go, if they just get kept in the field or sent to a Temple. Depends on how many men they have to train them, if they’re setting up to hold the area or just push through…” He shrugged a little, not looking at Damianus. “It would have been a poor area to hold on to, tactically, and there was the river going most of the way to Flagstaff. Simpler to shift us onto the women than weigh them down with mouths to feed.”

Damianus scraped up the last few bites in the bowl more slowly, considering. With a feeling like how he’d approach a nervous dog in case it fled, he asked, “What are the Temples like?”

Another of those almost-smiles. “Chaotic. The priestesses try, but a few hundred kids, and most of them in diapers, make a hell of a noise. The boys in the girls get sorted into classes once they’re old enough; I was put into an under-strength ‘contubernia’ right away. Seven other little bastards who took it on themselves to make sure I was tough enough to be a Legionary.” He reached for his water, winced as he took a swig, and for a moment, Damianus thought he wouldn’t go on. “Flavia, was the priestess in charge of our group. She got me pulled out of it before they could kill me. Started me training with the Frumentarii.”

“Kill you?”

But before he could reply, there was a commotion at the caravan. The decanus was protesting as the priestess drew his wife away by the arm, having her stand with the other women. He tried to reach for her, and the priestess’s guard stepped between them, knocking him back a step. “She has your name and rank,” he said, drawing his machete. The decanus, to his credit, stopped moving. “The woman will be sent back to you and the child marked towards your quota. She’s Caesar’s property, not yours.”

The decanus seemed to accept it, turning away as the guard sheathed his weapon. But as the guard turned his back, he tried to rush at the priestess, and two of the onlooking Legionaries grabbed at him before the guard finished turning, weapon ready. The other men were dragging him away, waving off the guard, but he stood ready between the man and the priestess anyway. She stood rigid a moment longer, holding her book like a shield, until the guard touched her elbow, encouraging her to move. Putting a hand to her chest, she tucked the book under her arm and nodded, walking on.

Damianus relaxed as they did, only then looking over at Marius. He had stood with his machete half-drawn, ready to rush forward, and settled as the altercation cooled, several men still standing between the decanus and the women. He watched him keep a wary eye on them still, and Damianus tried to formulate a question that wasn’t too damning. “You’d go a long way to defend them,” he landed on at last.

Marius shrugged, looking at Damianus. “Yes,” he said, and added a little flatly, “like any Legionary should.”

“More than that,” he said, quietly.

Marius almost shrugged again, then bobbled his head in not-quite-agreement. “Maybe I’ll end up part of the Temple guard. They like sweeping the underachievers off there.”

“Doesn’t seem like a terrible job,” Damianus said. “But aren’t they all…?” He trailed off, and finally made a snipping gesture with two fingers on one hand.

Taking another sip of water, Marius almost snorted it out his nose. “Yes,” he said, a little choked. “How _else_ do they keep them off the women?”

Damianus nodded, despite feeling like he’d been left out of the joke. But he hadn’t been laughing at _him,_ he felt, and it was good to see him laughing at all. But he didn’t look at him as he said, apparently to no one, “There’s people you might break rules to help.”

Marius narrowed his eyes, watching him for a long moment. Damianus kept an ear turned to him, waiting for an answer, but his gaze away, not demanding one. At last, Marius said, “In a heartbeat.” He added, more quietly, “Sometimes there’s people you owe enough.”

”Yeah,” Damianus said, not sure what else to offer. What he dared say aloud.

He couldn’t help feeling he had too many unpaid debts—and the ones he had may well get him killed.

***

Marius started awake, laying still a moment to try and process what had happened. There was another round of laughter from one of the nearest tents, and he relaxed—some late night guards catching up after a shift.

He laid his head back down, staring at nothing—and frowned. Damianus’ bedroll was empty, Rex still curled up hopefully at the foot of it. The noise seemed to have woken him too, and he wagged faintly as Marius stood. He rubbed the back of his neck briefly, told him to stay, and wandered off to find the nearest latrine.

Damianus was nowhere to be seen, as he made his way there and back, the moon hanging somewhere that put it around midnight. The Fort never quieted completely, even so late; sleepless Legionaries roaming back and forth, patrols constantly cycling in and out, and whatever else would make a man wander around camp in a crisp desert winter. Marius’ frown deepened as he walked. If he were Damianus, where…?

Somewhere quiet. Somewhere secluded. A hunch put him wandering along the river bank, the near side of Lake Mead, and soon he heard the steady _plop_ of stones being thrown into the water. He paused to look, and under the sliver of new moon, made out Damianus sitting on the sand, throwing rocks with that kind of hooking motion that meant he was trying to skip them. Sure enough, he threw, and Marius heard a series of plops before it sank.

He wavered. Damianus wanted to be alone, but…

“Six,” he said walking down the bank. “Good one. I barely get more than four.”

He looked back, and after a moment, gestured for him to sit. Sweeping a few rocks out of the way, he sat on his left so they’d each have room to throw, looking out over the water. He could just make out the lights of a Ranger station across the way, reflected on the ripples of the lake.

Damianus turned a stone over in his hands before offering it to Marius. He weighed it a moment before winging it off, and it hit the water with a single heavy _plonk._ Marius scratched at his head. “Out of practice…”

Damianus snorted. He threw the next with an expert flick of the wrist, and called, “Five.”

“You don’t count it going under.”

“Four’s still better than none.”

“True.”

Damianus sorted through his pile, finding the flattest stones to throw. Beside him, Marius sat with his knees drawn up, chin on his arms. The camp was quiet behind them, the approach to the water steep enough to keep people away and the sound to a minimum. Marius closed his eyes.

He could have sat with him all night.

“They were always proud of me,” Damianus said, his voice low. “When I would win a fight. Taking it to the Arena was a formality, made it public so other meathead bullies would learn the lesson, too.” He threw another stone, and it only skipped once before sinking. “They’d brag, too, when other men would try and start something with them. Tell them to take it up with me. At first I thought they were making fun of me, but…”

His contubernia. His friends. For those who found a place in the Legion, it was hard not to let them become one and the same.

Marius found his eyes had opened, and he was staring at the line where the water met the sand. Unprompted, Damianus went on, “I only lived because of dumb, blind luck, because I was on that stupid mission West, while they were…” Marius heard him stop and swallow. “I used to think they at least died doing their duty, that they had laid down their lives for a greater good, but I’ve seen Caesar now. I know who he is and what we serve. Everything we’ve been through, that…”

He licked his lips, pressing them tight like he was trying to keep them from shaking. “I should have been here. I don’t know if I could have made any sort of difference,” he said, voice choked, “but I should have been here. For their sake, Erasmus, everyone…”

Damianus was in arm’s reach. It almost hurt, the need to reach over and touch him on the back or shoulder, somewhere _appropriate,_ but Marius folded his arms tightly, swallowing the urge.

“Your friend since White Sands?” he said instead. “The one did everything he was told not to?”

The noise he made wasn’t really a laugh, more of a breath heavier than the others. “He was such an idiot,” Damianus said, voice still thick, but full of affection. “We were still just kids when we met, so I had a long time to watch him get up to his nonsense. I felt like eventually, he only did things to prove _how much_ of an idiot he was… But he was at my back for years. All of ours. I think you would have liked him.”

Marius fidgeted with a stone. He seemed to be in a better mood, and, well… “So when you say friend,” he said, while his stomach plummeted over even asking, “do you mean friends like we are, or friends like, uh… Friends like you agree to go out a little early to relieve him on night watch?”

Damianus paused. “Just…” He seemed to think a moment, and was a little higher when he said, “Like we are. Why?”

“I…wondered, is all.” Marius was intensely glad the dark was hiding his face. The line between the two was finer than he wanted to admit—but meant more now. Marius had won his way back into the Legion, with all the scrutiny that brought.

But there was part of him that needed to know, that some of the things between them weren’t his imagination. “If you had, uh…you know… I’d keep it a secret.”

The silence seemed to have its own gravity, dragging more words out of Damianus. “Have you ‘relieved’ very many men?” He caught the entendre a second later, and Marius made out him putting his face in his hands. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to—”

“I could count on one hand,” Marius said, pretending not to hear his embarrassment. Damianus made a little choking noise, but Marius couldn’t blush any harder. “The agreement was you didn’t name names. It kept us safer, but…”

“It made it harder to find people.”

“A lot harder.” They’d gotten this far, and it wasn’t like he didn’t suspect—_more_ than suspect… “Did you ever?”

“No,” he said, immediately, almost cutting Marius off. “I mean… It’s against the rules.” Damianus sounded wretched. “Against the rules, and I felt it would… Complicate too many things. That I’d get too attached. And the whole idea of it is...”

“You’d have to let someone close.”

“Too close.”

He _was_ so close, and looked so miserable. A touch, just a pat on the back—but if he did it, he wasn’t sure he’d stop there.

_—do it, do it you idiot, kiss him, you’ve thought about it enough, touch him, show him what he’s giving up, what you could have had, what you could_ still _have, it’s private enough right here—_

_He’s made his decision. It would be torture for both of you to have that memory and know what you left behind._

“But Erasmus,” Damianus started again, dragging them back on track. “He was too rebellious for his own good. I tried to help him, whenever I could, tried to keep him on track, keep him alive…” He paused, wiping at his face, and sniffed before going on. “He was my brother. Even though I couldn’t have changed anything…”

“If you’d been here, you would have died, too,” Marius said.

The silence that followed was deafening, even the Fort behind them seeming to hold its breath. Damianus dropped his chin to his chest, facing away.

_You’re going to regret this._

Marius reached over, laying an arm across Damianus’ shoulders. He stiffened, sitting up, and Marius gently pulled him closer, until he leaned against his side and he could rest his head against his. Damianus just sat there, rigid, even as Marius reached across with his other arm to hold him tighter.

They sat like that for one long breath, two, three. Marius could feel his heart hammering, but Damianus sat immobile.

_You presumptuous, lonely little_ twit. _He’s confessing all this and you make a_ move _ on him, you piece of—_

Marius leaned away, not looking at Damianus’ face. But Damianus’ hand came up, grabbing the arm across his shoulders, and his chest hurt as he left it there. They were never going to have a chance to do this again.

So just holding him, comforting him, was going to have to be enough.

“I thought that if I did everything right,” Damianus said, voice tight, “that everything would work out. I helped them all be better… I was two years gone on my 'lateral promotion' to the frumentarii. Must have been... At that time I'd have been using a delivery contract from Navarro as cover to rub elbows with caravaners coming the same way east, and scout the Bear's supply channels through the Divide. And they were at the Dam. I didn't learn until I returned that my entire contubernium had been near the front of the Burned Man's failed charge into Boulder. Which meant I was the only one left."

He sniffed once, hard, reaching to wipe at his eyes. "There's shame in—in that. Being the last man standing of your brothers you were meant to stand with. We grew up together. Eight of us; only lost two in six years of fighting, until Boulder. I should have been there fighting with them. That would have been right."

_Right._ Even after everything, he called it right. Marius rested his forehead against the side of Damianus’ head, eyes closed. He realized he was rubbing at his far shoulder, and made no move to stop, especially since he could find no words.

They sat like that a moment longer, savoring the other’s touch. But he felt Damianus turn slightly, like he was trying to look at him. “You talk,” he said, voice rough.

Marius stayed as he was a moment, silent, not sure where to start. He just focused on Damianus, feeling as he breathed, the smell of him, the soft ache of how much he had wanted this.

“There are so few people in the Legion I’ve been able to consider friends,” he said at last. “From the start, I was just a little too old, or not part of a proper formation, or just… On the outside, looking in, for any dozen reasons. And I just stopped expecting other Legionaries to _let_ me in.” Damianus pulled away a little, and Marius almost let go, but he just shifted to lean on him more comfortably, resting his head on Marius’ shoulder. Marius held on to him a moment longer, and swallowed before continuing, “Then I got embedded in the NCR.”

He rested his cheek on top of Damianus’ head, staring at the lights across the way. “You’re Frumentarii, you know how they drill it into you what the Legion holds dear. But they also taught me to look a man in the eye and lie without flinching. I got sent West, joined their army with forged papers. They’re so desperate to get people to the Mojave they didn’t look closely, and I trained with them for all of three weeks before being sent to McCarran.” He managed a small, bitter smile. “They had already tapped me as someone to watch. I wasn’t lying when I said it was just basic competence that got me promoted, they got me to agree to a six-year contract in exchange for beginning duty as a corporal.

“And for the first time in a long time, people were proud of me. I’d gone through the same training as my peers. I was expected to socialize, to form bonds. The Legion wanted me—had trained me—to resist it, to always remember that I was among enemies and had to keep my wits about me. But I…couldn’t. I was…_so tired_ of trying to. I couldn’t force them all away _and_ stay among them. I handed off reports when I could, lifted documents, other small sabotage. But as little as I could get away with, without making the Legion suspicious. And it just got harder to do, with time.”

He stopped, trying to compose himself. Another headache was lurking on the horizon, made of pure tension. When he couldn’t go on, Damianus said quietly, “And then they sent you to Nelson.”

Marius wiped at his face, nodding. “I knew who Curtis was. That he was watching me, coordinating the sabotage. But I was the one who made sure shipments of materiel got lost, that orders for more troops were altered. I tampered with their radios, made it look like damage in transit. Whatever I could to slow them down as they set up camp, and the Legion was able to get a few contubernia in place to take it. I spent my days commiserating with people about how the posting was cursed, but was too scared to warn them that I was the reason for it, and what was coming. I knew…” He had to stop and swallow again. “I’d done too much. I knew when the attack was coming, and it was too soon to make a difference. I almost confessed. We could have fallen back. The Legion would have taken Nelson, but only because they found it deserted. 

“But I know what the Legion does to traitors, that’s…that’s the only thing they ever made stick. And because I was afraid for myself, I was running people off a cliff, who were…were calling me by a name that—that I’d answered to more readily than Marius.” He wanted to be sick again. “And if I hesitated, I was going to be next.”

“We’ve lost so many people,” Damianus said, quietly. Marius nodded, still resting his cheek on his head. His hand was laying on Damianus’ thigh, and he felt him take it, breath catching a little as he worked his fingers through his. It was such a small motion, gentle, unobtrusive, but was enough move Marius to tears.

Especially as he pulled away.

“The Legion has only ever taken things from me,” he said, choking on the words. He leaned away, the cold of the night all the sharper for having felt the warmth of Damianus’ body. “And I’m sorry.” Marius gritted his teeth, trying not to sob. He managed to whisper, “I’m sorry you have to be one of them.”

He should have stood to walk back to camp, but it was all he could do to look away, fighting to keep from crying aloud. He barely registered when Damianus stood to leave, and there was no parting word, no gentle touch, no attempt to prove him wrong or give him comfort. Just footsteps, crunching gently up the bank.

Marius buried his face in his arms, trying to muffle the noise as he wept.


	9. Chapter 9

Damianus went alone to Caesar’s tent, in the morning. The sun was rising orange, falling in strips between tents and promising a warm, bright day. Rex snuffled at his hand for attention, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Marius’ bedroll had stayed empty all night.

So he went alone to speak to a warlord who probably forgot his name the second he stepped out of sight, despite having spent a lifetime shedding blood in _his_ name. He restrained his anger—his grief—long enough to listen to his orders, bow his head, and leave without murdering him.

He took a long path out of the Fort, looping past the brahmin pen. There was no one else to risk now, no one’s life or reputation but his own.

He almost sleepwalked the rest of the way as he turned it over in his head, towards the launch on the river bank. He felt Rex peel off as he passed the last set of gates, and turned to look.

Marius reached down to ruffle Rex’s ears, avoiding Damianus’ gaze. His heart was stuck in his throat at the sight of him, and despite himself, he waited for Marius to wave Rex away and join him on the path. With his hands in his pockets, he didn’t look at Damianus, just nodded towards the ferry and kept walking.

A couple other Legionaries joined them on the ferry, barring any real conversation. They lounged on the edges of the raft, and even Marius sat facing out, chin resting on one knee. All Damianus could do was have a seat, absently stroking Rex’s neck, and wait for the trip to be over. He caught himself staring at Marius—he had tried to clean up the sides of his head, a little unevenly, the scars from his surgery still fresh and pink. He got a glimpse of his face as he turned, looking to where one of the other men was pointing at a deathclaw watching the raft pass, crouched to drink from the river. He looked tired, his face drawn into sober lines, and Damianus saw the corner of his mouth turn down disapprovingly as one of the Legionaries sighted on the monster, laughing.

Downriver was a short trip, at least, and an hour saw the cursor carefully poling up to the Cottonwood pier, a waiting Legionary tossing him a line as the rest of them disembarked. Marius hung back, letting Damianus lead, and it was like a kick in the chest to hear him naturally fall into step behind. He kept pace past the slave pen, the mother and her children huddling together in one corner, watching them warily.

_At least in the Legion they’ll have purpose._ Damianus didn’t have any room in him for hope, anymore. But he wished them more peace with that purpose than he had.

He could hear Marius behind him as they followed the path to the highway, past the crosses, out of tentative Legion territory and into the Mojave. Would he notice, if he just slipped away? He was out of the Fort, out of sight of Cottonwood, he could leave at any time. Would he stop him, say anything? Or would he just make the break clean, leaving Damianus to eventually turn and find an empty space, to never…

His feet dragged, and he stopped. Marius met his eyes for hardly a second before looking over his shoulder, attentive but not intimate. It took a moment for Damianus to gather himself and ask, voice soft, “Where will you go?”

Marius drew back a little, meeting his eyes for a flash. “To the Strip. With you,” he said, puzzled. “Something about the White Glove Society?”

There was actual pain in his throat, and Damianus had to swallow hard. “There’s nothing making you do this. You can leave,” he said, hardly above a whisper. “It’s alright.”

His composure broke for only a breath, and Marius rubbed at his face as he glanced away. “No. I know that…” he said, his voice a little unsteady. He almost reached out as he lowered his hand, but quickly grabbed the straps of his backpack instead. “But I’m not going to just abandon you.” He looked up, away, and added more softly, “I can’t.”

There _was_ a word for the feeling that welled up in Damianus, that threatened to put him on his knees with the force of it, that made him want to bury his face in the crook of his neck and hold him until he knew what it meant.

And it felt like a knife through his heart to know he couldn’t.

“There’s only one thing I have to ask of you,” Marius said. He seemed ready to forge on, but shifted his weight, evasive. “Do you know why I was imprisoned in Techatticup?”

“Desertion,” Damianus said, sobering. “They caught you outside of camp while you were trying to run.”

“Partly,” he said. He squinted at the sun, getting slowly higher and more intense, and started walking again. Damianus fell in beside him, putting his face almost out of sight. “They weren’t sure where I was going, because I was carrying a series of reports. Important ones, ones that might have gone to Caesar. That’s why they hesitated, instead of killing me on the spot.”

Damianus said nothing, the pieces falling into place. Marius went on, “I was going to do one last thing before I ran. Hadn’t decided where, but I had a contact, in Westside, and I was going to deal with that first.”

“NCR?” Damianus asked.

Marius shook his head. “I considered it, but Curtis would have known where they came from.” He reached up to fuss with his hair, nervous. “They were going to the Temple.”

He took his time to think it over. “But that’s still the Legion…”

“They’re…” Marius sighed. “Look. You really think Lanius is going to be able to lead the Legion? Anywhere but the grave? The priestesses are the ones who control every record in the East, have a finger on every supply line, they know the placement of every slave, every child, the tribe of every assimilated Legionary,” he said, smacking the back of his hand into his other palm with every point. He paused in the shadow of a hill, meeting Damianus’ eyes at last. “Caesar’s an old man, even if he weren’t failing. Lanius won’t be able to hold the Legion together like he did, not even close. And there are going to be a lot of people suffering out East when things start to collapse. The priestesses, the Temple, are the only ones organized enough to pick up the pieces.”

Damianus stared back. “You think there’s a Legionary alive who would let a bunch of women take command of them?”

Marius opened his mouth, shut it. “I don’t know what their plans are,” he said, subdued. “All I know is that they wanted intelligence from the front and Caesar’s inner circle. Things they wouldn’t normally have access to. They sheltered me for it, faked my child quota, kept me on courier duties instead of converting tribes.”

“You owe them.”

“I owe them _everything.”_ He wavered, and said more gently, “_Almost_ everything. Damianus, I…Let me do this last thing. One last drop. Then I’m at your back through the rest of this, no conflict of interest. I’ll fall back in line. I’ll sit at Caesar’s throne and…and beg for scraps like a good dog. You’ve worked so hard to keep me off a cross, and I swear on my life I won’t throw that away.”

Why did everything have to hurt? “Marius, it won’t change anything. If Lanius thinks they’re working against him…”

“Let me give them one last chance. Please.”

_”No.”_ He had to stop to breathe, trying to keep the emotion in his chest down. “Listen to me. I can’t let you do this. I can’t—” _lose you_ “—let you incriminate yourself any more. This contact is in Westside?”

Marius stared at him, desolate. “Yes.”

“And they think they’re going to get away unnoticed when Lanius marches on the Mojave?”

“Yes,” he said again. Quietly, he added, “She.”

The word was almost a plea. Damianus shut his eyes briefly. “Then you owe it to her to kill her yourself, cleanly, rather than let the Legate find her. _Look_ at what we’ve done,” he said, moving to stay in Marius’ line of sight as he stepped away, wiping at his face. “The Boomers are on the Legion’s side. House is gone. The NCR is stumbling at every turn, even when we haven’t sabotaged them. We’ve done too much for anyone but the Legion to win. Don’t…” He had to rally and swallow to clear his throat. “If word ever reaches Caesar, or Vulpes—or Lanius—that you did any of this, nothing is going to save you. Don’t make me lose you again.”

The words came out raw and scraping, and he could almost taste the Cloud.

Marius had closed his eyes, shoulders drooping, face turned away. “Yes,” he said at last.

“I’m sorry,” Damianus said. “I am. But there’s only one way this could go, Marius. You don’t… If you take me there, I can do it. All that matters is that this stops.”

“Is it?” He shook his head, face bitter. “This is like with Silus. I…need to prove...”

“You never needed to,” Damianus said, pressing his lips tight as he started to walk. “I wish you had let me handle him.”

“It was the only thing that put me back in the Legion’s graces,” Marius said, a step behind. “I had to.”

“Maybe.” His mouth twisted. “But between the two of us, I was the one already dead inside.”

At Marius’ silence, he looked back. He had stopped walking, looking at Damianus in a way that called out the lie as much as it ached for the truth in it; plea as well as pity.

He couldn’t stand it, and pulled his backpack higher as he kept walking. “Come on,” he said. “If we don’t get moving, we’ll be spending the night in Fiend territory.”

There was a long moment before his feet scraped on the dirt, catching up. “Alright,” Marius said quietly. “Alright.”

***

”How well do you know her?”

“I don’t even know her real name,” Marius said. Half-true, he never asked if it was an alias or not.

The light was fading as they made their way past the ruins of South Vegas. They were making good time, despite themselves, Marius automatically keeping pace with Damianus. He considered stopping, dragging his feet to make Damianus reconsider, but…

In the end, he would only be delaying the inevitable.

Damianus was looking back over his shoulder, sidelong. His face was grim and hard, and Marius stared dully at him as he asked. “How long have you been working with her?”

_Long enough._ “That doesn’t matter.”

The questions had gotten infrequent through the day, even Damianus seeming to pick up the heavy dread in Marius’ stomach. His gaze shifted away, uncomfortable, as he said slowly, “Are you two…?”

He should lie, for her sake, make this harder than it needed to be, try and change his mind. “No,” he said instead, the truth. “I don’t want to talk about this, Damianus.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. He seemed ready to go on, but after a longer look at Marius, faced ahead and kept leading.

He was silent, watching Rex for cues as they moved, avoiding people and threats rather than fighting their way through—absurd, when they were walking to an execution anyway.

What would he say to her? _Sorry, turns out I’m a traitor twice over._ Or, _I fear the Legion more than I hope for the future._

“Is there a chance someone else will be there, or will it just be her?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Damianus took a deep breath, and let it out as a sigh. He paused, the lights of Camp McCarran already bright as the sun slipped behind the mountains. “I just want to know what the risks are here,” he said, sounding defeated. “Marius, we both know—”

“Yeah, we both know.” Marius just kept trudging past him. “I know. I just…” He put his hands to his head, and threw them back down as he stopped. He stared at Damianus, who looked uneasily back. Would he even talk to her? What could he say? _I love one man more than the fate of the entire East._

Admitting it, even silently, should have done something to him; should have been a revelation. Should have broken through the numbness as he looked at him as if through glass, arm’s reach and a world away. He turned to keep walking.

Marius knew he could never truly love another Legionary—not with the sort of love that he had wanted to give Damianus, whole and unabashed and part of every breath he took. And he could never love a man who asked him to kill someone in cold blood.

It was full dark by the time they reached Westside, the night eerily quiet and still. Damianus slowed, gesturing for Rex to wait, and stepping aside for Marius to lead. He could see the apartment from where he stood, and…

He couldn’t move.

“Where?” was all Damianus said. When Marius couldn’t reply, he moved as if to touch him on the arm, but drew away. “Marius. Where is she?”

_You don’t have to tell him. You can just run._

“Marius.” Gently, like kindness would make this any easier. “Tell me where. I can do it.”

Marius looked him in the eye, not breaking away, wishing he could. Damianus gave in first, turning up the Westside street. “Where is she?”

It would only be a matter of time before Damianus found her.

“She’s…” _She doesn’t deserve this._

_She was trying to fight monsters like him. Like them both._

“Marius. Please.” Damianus was staid, serious, wearing the same hard expression that he usually did, this death no different than a hundred others. It was what the Legion had forged him into, a murderer, a tool, one that even Caesar recognized as capable enough to spearhead this last push on the Mojave.

And Marius was no different. The Legion’s victory was inevitable.

“Last door on the ground floor,” Marius said, leading the way to the apartment building. “I’ll do it.”

“No. Please, don’t—I can—”

“I owe her this,” Marius said, voice low. “Not to stand by and watch.”

He tested the doorknob, gently. Locked. He glanced up the street for witnesses before he drew his machete, and stepped back to throw his weight against the door. Ancient wood shattered, rusted screws tearing out. He intended to keep going, rush her down, make it fast and brutal, too fast for second thoughts or explanations. To use her trust of him against her, taking that second of confusion to—

_You’ve only ever gotten close to people to betray them, haven’t you?_

He stumbled as he cleared the door, a shudder going through him.

“Marius? What the hell is this?” A woman stood up from beside a ham radio, a mass of curly black hair held back by a headset. She pulled it off, fair skin going even paler as he stepped into the room, Damianus following. _”Shit._ It _was_ him you were asking about? What do you think you’re—?”

“I’m sorry, Luz,” he said. He groped for words, momentum gone, unable to even look her in the eye. “Things have… They’ve changed.”

_”Changed?”_ Damianus spotted her reaching for a knife sitting on a side table, and grabbed it before she could. Luz backed up, shoving her chair out of the way. “What the hell, _changed?_ Marius, this isn’t you. What has this little bastard put you up to?”

“I got pulled back in,” he said, and tightened his grip on the machete. “I’m so sorry, Luz. The Legion is going to win.” He had to look away from her, and caught a glimpse of Damianus. The look on his face was…

When Marius shut his eyes, he could feel tears run down his cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry. I promise I’ll make this quick.”

“I hope the vultures choke on you,” she spat, groping behind her, her hand closing on the heavy stand for the radio microphone.

“Don’t make this any harder than it already is,” he said, almost pleading. He raised the machete, feeling cold. She would swing, he would evade, catch her arm, swing for her throat, and—

It would be over, in only a second.

He would never have to think for himself again.

And he would never forgive Damianus.

_”Stop!”_

Even Luz looked, hand tight on the stand. Marius turned to Damianus, lowering his weapon. “Stop,” Damianus said, voice breaking. “Don’t do it. This is wrong.” He reached his hands to Marius, palms up. “I can’t watch you do this. _I_ was wrong. I was always…” He broke off with a sob, and looked over at Luz. “Run. Take what you need. Get out.”

“This is _my_ home!” she said, as bewildered as she was furious. _”You_ get out!”

“I can’t guarantee this place isn’t compromised,” Damianus said. “We’ve been tracked before.”

Luz gave a growl of frustration and yanked open a desk drawer, pulling out fistfuls of paper. “Then leave.”

Marius stood rooted, staring at Damianus. “What are…”

“I can’t do this to you,” he said, still holding out his hand. “You might as well be dead if you do.”

“And…what?” Marius said, sheathing his machete. “I run? I leave you here? I won’t _do_ that, Damianus, and there’s nowhere left to run.”

_”Leave!”_ Luz shouted, grabbing a pack and heading for the bedroom.

Marius couldn’t look away from Damianus, at the tears on his cheeks, and the feeble smile he forced to his face. “Then we’re better off deserting together, aren’t we?”

He still had his hands out, open. And Marius took them, drawing Damianus close. They wrapped their arms around each other, and Marius cradled the back of his head, pressing Damianus’ face against his neck. He fought not to sob in relief, in the hope that they—

_”Get! Out!”_

Marius felt the flat of a machete smack across his back and arm, and he looked up to see Luz brandishing it more seriously. “Wait!” he said, backing away. He shrugged out of his pack and got a grip, tearing the back panel open, and threw a packet of paper on the floor. Luz lowered the weapon, but scowled a moment longer, before pointing it at the door.

He grabbed Damianus by the hand, dragging him outside, into the orange light of a street lamp. “Wait,” Marius said, when Damianus would have kept going, and pulled him to a halt. “You mean this. This is…You’re throwing everything away?”

He looked back, seemed almost surprised when he glanced down to see his hand in his. “I’m not throwing anything away,” he said, low and serious. He looked up, meeting Marius’ gaze, eyes glittering in the uneven light. “I thought it would save you, keeping you loyal instead of executed as a traitor.” He took his hand in both of his, holding it tighter. “But serving the Legion is going to kill you, even if you do everything right, you’ll be dead even as you move and breathe. And I can’t just… Just watch that happen to you.”

“So we find another way?” Marius said, feeling like his heart would burst.

“So we find another way,” Damianus said.

All Marius could do was nod, and hand in hand, follow him into the dark.


	10. Chapter 10

“I know Vulpes is putting us up to it, but there’s still an innocent woman in trouble with the Omertas,” Damianus said, pretending not to look into one of Vault 21’s rooms as they passed. “Would you rather get involved with a bunch of cannibals?”

Marius grimaced. “Fine, we’ll look after her, first,” he said. “Then we need a plan, alright?”

Damianus blew his lips out with a sigh. “A plan,” he said, like he had been faced with a sheer cliff and told to climb. “I’m open to suggestions.”

“You and me both,” Marius muttered. They came to an intersection in the vault hallway and nodded to each other, headed opposite directions.

The night had brought them back to New Vegas with no time to regroup—Damianus hadn’t lied to Luz, there was always a risk Vulpes had set one of his lackeys to tail them, whether Caesar had approved it or not. They had come straight to the Strip to at least look compliant in their duties, but Damianus had explained his mission with distaste as they walked. Caesar wanted allies on the Strip, and whatever nameless tribe House had conscripted to run the Ultra Luxe had once been cannibals. They would be allowed them to return to their ways, in exchange for their allegiance…for as long as Caesar felt like honoring the deal, Marius knew.

He wandered apparently aimlessly into a common area in the vault. A few people were shooting pool in the middle of the room, and a couple booths were occupied by lone drinkers. Searching every room in a vault for this Groesbeck woman sounded like a waste of time, and he palmed a bottle of whiskey as he passed a counter, stopping to lean on a table as he twisted the top off. “Hey, do you mind?” Marius turned, turning to look at the man at the table as though he hadn’t noticed him. “I’m trying to drink myself to the ground, here.”

Marius snorted. “You might have overshot, you seem to be drinking _under_ the ground.”

His eyes narrowed, a suspicious expression that seemed to come naturally to him. “Oh, we got a fuckin’ wise guy over here,” he said, mouth twisting into a wry smile. He held out his glass when Marius offered the bottle, giving him a generous pour. “This is about the last place in this fucking city where I can burrow without having to look over my shoulder.”

“More than a few people joining you,” Marius said, sitting in the booth across from him. “Sounds like you’re in trouble.”

Another pour when he emptied the glass, a few sips of his own to encourage him, and the man—Carlitos—was only too happy to bemoan his fate; an ex-Gomorrah croupier, worried about a woman. Marius turned a sympathetic ear to it, waiting for his chance to slip a word in. As Carlitos lost steam on a rant, Marius tipped the bottle at him. “Funny you should mention Gomorrah,” he said, and for once it was the truth. “And its…way with women. I’m looking for someone, Martina Groesbeck. I heard a rumor she spends a lot of time there, and here.”

“Martina? Yeah,” Carlitos said, sitting back with an arm over the back of the booth. “She’s a nice dame, even if her choice of venue stinks. Who are you to her?”

Marius took a casual sip. “Her guardian angel.”

It was a stupid, pompous line, but Carlitos was looking at him as thoughtfully as a well-soaked drunk could. “I ain’t a trusting man,” he said, slowly, “but you and I might be able to strike a deal. You’re going to Gomorrah?”

Which as good as told Marius where Groesbeck was, but he stayed seated. “If it’s in my interest.”

“There is…maybe _was,_ a woman there named Joana. All I want is to know she’s safe. She got turned into Cachino’s squeeze, so god only knows what’s happened to her since I left. I want you to go there, try and find her for me.”

“Prostitute?” Marius asked. “Reddish hair, blue eyes?”

“Yeah! She—” His enthusiasm faded into something uncomfortable. “Well, they billed her as the hottest ass on the Strip. Just never thought I’d be asking a favor from one of her—”

“I saw her outdoors there. One of their street dancers a few weeks ago,” Marius said. Carlitos settled. “I’ll find her, talk to her for you. My friend and I—”

“No friends,” Carlitos said, leaning over the table. “You and me are in on this, alright? Nobody else. Nobody I don’t know. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” Marius said, holding his hand out in a soothing gesture. “And Groesbeck?”

“She headed for Gomorrah an hour ago,” Carlitos said, sitting back. “Good luck, if the Omertas have something on her. And you remember our deal: You bring we word about Joana. How she looks, what she's wearing, if she's safe, anything.”

“Deal,” Marius said, slipping out of the booth. He heard footsteps coming up the hall as he approached the door, accompanied by the faint _click_ of a leg brace. “She’s not here,” he said.

“Her room’s been tossed,” Damianus said as he hurried up. “We should get to Gomorrah.”

“That’s the word,” Marius said, falling in beside him. He stood by as Damianus poked his head into their room, making sure Rex was settled before taking off—the cyberdog was useful in a fight, but too recognizable for a job like this. Marius turned over an explanation as he did, but ‘I agreed to talk to a hooker’ wasn’t it. He may as well let Damianus in on it, despite anything Carlitos had said.

“The Omertas had already gotten wind of her passing information to someone,” Damianus said, leading the way up the stairs. “There was no blood, they wanted her alive for questions.”

“She’s been gone about an hour,” Marius said.

Damianus paused to look at him, one foot on the landing. “You’re _good,”_ he said, turning as he kept walking.

Marius tried not to smirk as he followed him out onto the Strip. “So, uh. While we’re there—”

“I don’t want to spend a second longer in that pit than we need,” Damianus said.

They hadn’t stopped walking, moving as fast as possible without drawing attention of Strip’s ambient traffic. Marius sighed. “I made a deal to get that tip. We can split up, and…”

“A _deal?”_ Damianus glanced at him, incredulous. “Involving Gomorrah? Look, have you ever been in there?”

“Have you?”

The wind went out of his sails for a moment, the casino’s sign looming over them. “No,” he said, reluctantly. “But for good reason. Look, if you want to wander off, I can’t stop you, but—”

Marius sighed. He kept his mouth shut as they passed through security, handing over their obvious weapons without complaint. “You go after Groesbeck,” he said, as they stepped into the casino proper. “You’re someone they’ll deal with—” a Legion agent “—and shouldn’t have any trouble. I need to talk to—”

“You’re not one of the attractions here, are you?” A trio of drunken gamblers wandered past, one of the women making a gesture at the deep neck of Dixie’s hooded shirt. He pulled it shut, face flushing bright red. Marius stepped between them, glowering, right hand almost going to a machete that wasn’t there. The trio wandered off, laughing.

“Look, I’m not spending a second longer here than necessary,” Damianus hissed. “I take no responsibility for what you do, I’m going to look after Martina, and I’m leaving. That’s it.”

“Well, I’m going to go find a prostitute,” Marius said, exasperated. Damianus drew himself taller, affronted, almost—Upset? Marius waved a hand at him as he walked away. “I’ll explain later, the Omertas have an hour’s lead on you.”

He slowed after a few steps. Maybe he _ought_ to explain now. But when he turned back, Damianus was gone, and Marius could just make out a shaved head bobbing in the crowd, heading for a flight of stairs.

Whatever, then. He’d deal with this and fill him in back at the Vault.

The place made Marius’ skin crawl. _Seedy_ didn’t begin to cover the atmosphere, the reek of stale liquor and worse substances set into the very walls, the way people’s eyes followed him, the flash of chems passed hand-to-hand in the dark corners. Damianus had a point, about not spending longer here than necessary. But if he wanted to pitch a fit over it, he could pitch a fit over it, and Marius could explain later. He had a deal to honor.

So Marius went slowly deeper into the bowels of Gomorrah with a mildly interested face despite his disgust, just a tourist looking for a good time, and was eventually steered to where he might find a bit of companionship.

The air was hardly any fresher in the courtyard, but at least crisp in the night. A pool stretched the length of the space, tents on either side, and he tried to close his ears to the sounds coming from some of them. A couple women were lingering at the near end of the pool, the younger one looking on disinterestedly as two men huddled away from her, arguing over which of them was entitled to the hundred caps between them. Marius ran a hand through his hair, mentally rehearsed a dozen lines in his head, and put on what he thought was a suave, roguish expression.

She looked up as he approached, and her face snapped instantly to a warm smile, eyes half-hooded as she lazily looked him up and down, lips a little parted as she touched a finger to them. “Welcome back, gorgeous,” she said, moving like she was dancing to a song only she could hear as she stepped closer. The two men gave him a sour look. “You leave your shy boy behind to come and see Joana?”

“He doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Marius said, trying to turn a panicked grin into something—_anything,_ but she was still swaying a little and— He pried his eyes up to her face. “But I’d prefer we had a little time to ourselves, I’ve never liked to share a prize like you.” She laughed—and he narrowed his eyes a little at the sound. It might have fooled a patron that was drunk or high, but…

“Oh, I like you.” She sauntered closer, resting a finger on his chest, lightly pulling down the collar of his shirt. This close, her pupils were like pinpricks. “You think you have what it takes to win me?”

He took her hand, raising it to his lips, eyes never leaving hers. “I always have what it takes,” he murmured, just brushing the back of her hand.

“Oh, confident,” Joana said, twisting her fingers through his. The look she gave him only made him flush more, and her grin widened a little more honestly. “Then let’s see what you’ve got, loverboy.”

She led him to the edge of the courtyard, and Marius spared a glance at the men left gaping after him. And beyond them was…

Damianus, looking after him with something very like betrayal on his face.

Joana led him into a private room rather than a tent, and Marius shut the door behind him. She tried to tug him along toward the bed, still smiling, but he let her hand go. “Carlitos sent me. He wants to get you out of here.”

Her whole demeanor shifted, the sultry expression gone, her body all rigid tension. “Carlitos? He’s alive?”

“He’s been living in Vault 21. He won’t leave the Strip without you,” he said. Looking around, there was a bathrobe on the back of the door, and he passed it to her without taking his eyes off the floor. “He sent me as his agent, it’s too dangerous for him to come himself.”

“He’s okay,” she whispered, pulling it on and sitting on the edge of the bed, a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, this changes everything. Oh my god…”

Marius pulled a chair closer, waiting for her to get a hold of herself. Sitting with his hands clasped, he stared down at the floor until she said, “Tell me everything.”

He did, all that Carlitos had said, and she told him in turn about the Omertas, her hatred of Cachino; made a bitter reference to a Med-X addiction. Her mood dwindled as she spoke, and Marius watched her look away, already defeated. “The Omertas will want us dead,” she said at last. “What will you do about that?”

“I’ll keep this between us,” he said, idly rubbing his hands together. “I have a partner—” _who I owe an explanation, first,_ “—that can help, and I’ll get Carlitos pinned down on a plan. Expect me back as soon as I can tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow night, not quite this late. If you show up in the daytime, and the Omertas might get suspicious,” Joana said. “And tell Carlitos that I still—” she glanced up at his face, away. “Never mind.”

“Tomorrow night,” he said, standing. She stayed where she was on the bed, and he added gently, “I’ll tell him you’re glad to hear from him.”

She nodded, after a moment, and went to get the door. Marius slipped out, not bothering to play the satisfied client as he scanned the courtyard for Damianus.

He was nowhere to be seen with the courtyard starting to empty, the hour late even for Vegas.

Marius hunched his shoulders as he walked. If Damianus had _listened_ instead of throwing his hands up at the word ‘prostitute,’ he could have spelled it out. It was his own fault, if he thought Marius was… was…

It wasn’t _cheating_ if they weren’t…

He had to stop for a moment by the courtyard doors, hands over his face. He hadn’t _done_ anything—had never even planned to do anything with her—and he felt like a jerk. It wasn’t fair, especially when he didn’t even have the nerve to make advances to—

Marius made a disgusted noise at himself and stormed back out through the casino.

***

Damianus burst out of Gomorrah with fists clenched and thoughts storming around in his head.

How could he?

He thought—

_Exactly_ what _did you think?_

_You're acting like a child._

Maybe he was. How should he know? 

Damianus made it just into the Vault 21 lobby before his momentum petered out. The receptionist looking up as he pushed through the doors was what made him hesitate, caught between whether to barge through and invite no conversation or to pull himself together and put on a polite face. She'd been sweet to them checking in. He was a guest in _her_ home.

"Hey!" she greeted, with a smile that faded after getting a good look at him. "Whoa, what's up daddy-o? You're red as a tomato."

He fought to unlock his jaw and think of something. Nothing really came, and he was on the verge of shaking his head and retreating down into the Vault when she pushed off from the wall with a concerned frown and drew closer. "Where's your boyfriend?"

He waved a hand dismissively toward the door behind him. "Gomorrah," he bit off, with not nearly as much petty venom as it dripped in his head. He added, "He's not my boyfriend." Good and neutral. Matter-of-fact.

"Sorry, shouldn't have assumed. Blegh, Gomorrah though." She wrinkled her nose. "I see that a lot, if it makes you feel better. People coming back here feeling suuuuuper awkward, because their friends left them alone for some stranger? Nobody likes being ditched on their night out, but it happens. A _lot."_

"Yeah." There wasn't much else to say to that, really. He gave a half nod towards the stairs, trying to signal that it was time for him to flee and lick his wounds.

"You wanna hang with me instead?" Sarah said brightly. "It's slowed down for the night, so I'm about ready to close up shop, and the diner's probably empty by now. We can go down and crack open a couple beers, just you and me. My treat."

"I, uh…" There was something in her smile... Was she making a pass at him?

He thought about it. She was pretty, and nice, and he was—

Lonely. Pathetic. Desperate for _anyone_ to want him. Mistaking friendliness for attraction.

"No. Thank you, though," he said, looking somewhere around her left ear instead of her eyes and trying not to sound as wretched as he felt. "I think I should just—just get some sleep."

"Offer stands if you change your mind. I can't be too mean to guests, it's bad for business, but I'll give your friend a real good stink-eye for you if I see him first." She rolled her eyes. "What a jerk, right? Urgh."

Damianus forced a laugh. "Yeah, what a jerk." He ducked his head as he made his escape downstairs.

There were only a handful of people still milling around in the Vault, and no one in the hallway outside their room. He stopped at the door, staring at it without really seeing it, wrenched by the nauseous _something_ that had replaced the anger.

Something… he tried to put a name to it. Jealousy, definitely—it was familiar this time. Jealousy and… humiliation.

_You're an idiot. Reading something into nothing._

He jammed in the temporary key code Sarah had given them and slithered inside feeling sick with himself. With himself and with Marius.

She was welcome to give Marius a dirty look for him, because Damianus wasn't sure how he'd look him in the eye when he came back. It wasn't his business what Marius did, or who with, didn't care about the men he'd been with before. But his stomach turned at the thought of him with someone else _now_, after everything.

The thought of facing Marius, knowing what he was doing even now with—

When Damianus had thought the two of them were—

… were what?

_You weren't anything. There's nothing there to betray._

The door slid shut behind him. He thumped his back on it and stared into the room, not sure what to do with himself now he was alone but for Rex, who hopped off one of the beds with tail wagging to greet him. He ruffled his ears half-heartedly.

It wasn't really _nothing,_ was it? There was something there, you didn't come from where they did and—and hold another person, another _man,_ the way Marius had held him in the bunker. At the river. At Westside... You didn't grip someone’s hands and hold them tight without really meaning it.

He was sure that Marius was his _friend_, at least, from the sheer fact he'd never run out on him. But he'd had other friends before Marius. They didn't hold each other like that. It had to mean something, right?

_It was just a stupid hug. If you weren't so good at inventing meaning where there isn’t any, you'd have left the Legion a lot sooner._

He was just stupid, confused by a little kindness because he didn't know what it was supposed to look like. Mixing it up with something else entirely, with the way Marius treated the women who caught his eye. He'd just held his hand, not… not kissed it. Never crooned about what a _prize_ he was, like a suitor on one of his holotapes.

Never said anything nice about him at all, really.

He could taste the bitterness of that on the back of his tongue, now that he realized it.

Marius certainly liked to bask in attention from attractive people. Damianus knew at least fundamentally that he was good looking—people flirted with him sometimes, right? Even with the scars. And he'd offered Marius attention, or he'd tried to. And yet here he was, a lonely idiot pining away in an empty hotel room while Marius was—

He thumped his head against the door at his back and let an agonized groan crawl out of him as he slid to the floor. Rex took it as an invitation to lick at his face, and Damianus gently pushed him away.

He was good looking, but it was only another weapon in his arsenal, like everything else he had to his name. To manipulate people, play the harmless prettyboy. Marius knew him well enough to know that. To not want that.

_You'll know you're out of the Legion on the day there's one good thing anyone can say about you that doesn't serve Caesar._

Just clever enough to be useful, just handsome enough to be useful, just tough enough to be useful, just dumb enough to be useful. Just a lot of weapons.

What did he have to offer Marius but weapons?

Misery turned to resentment as he pushed up off the floor and paced, if only because it was tempting to try and hate someone else for a while, since he couldn't get away from himself.

_What does Marius have to offer_ me?

He hated that he had answers to that. He knew exactly why he loved Marius.

Marius was handsome, and he was _fun._ He was smart, and clever when he wasn't dense. A stupid part of Damianus was even fond of him when he _was_ dense. He was talented, and he was capable. And he was brave, no matter what he'd had to do to stay alive.

He was… he was complicated—frustratingly complicated, and he was an idiot who barely even seemed to understand _himself_ half the time, but that was because he was still a human. Because he'd never let them take that from him. He was everything he was just because that was who he was. For himself, not in service to anybody else. Because he was willful and strong and passionate and _obnoxiously_ stubborn and opinionated and despite himself, maybe just because it all added up to a person he loved, Damianus loved all of that, too. 

… When it wasn't being used against him, to cut away at what little was left of him.

But even when Marius had been awful to him, he'd… deserved it. Damianus wasn't a good person. That was getting a lot clearer, lately. He couldn't say he didn't have it coming.

And even at his cruelest, when it came down to it, Marius had a good heart. Whatever Caesar had made him do, he'd stayed a good man at heart. And he cared—

_Your superiors just wanted a laugh as you died trying._

... he cared about him.

Right?

He'd walked with him into what they both thought was the end, knowing he could just leave. He'd stayed beside him at his worst. He'd taken care of him when he was hurt—

_It didn't take him long to stop caring when someone better was around._

His heart was pounding against a lump in his throat. Damianus whirled and kicked the nearest piece of furniture—and learned that the night stand was surprisingly heavy, and that it was also bolted to the floor.

"Fuck!"

The dog gave a short bark of alarm at the noise. Damianus' steel-toed boot took most of the impact, mercifully, but the force of it jammed his toes against the inside and he hissed, stumbling and just managing to land on his ass on the bed.

He grimaced, working his stinging toes inside his boot, and squinted at the night stand. He'd still managed to put a sizeable dent in the metal. He'd have to pay and apologize for that.

The guilt took the heat out of him for a moment, long enough to leave him cold. Still making plaintive little sounds, Rex hopped up on the bed next to him and snuffled at him, leaning against his shoulder. Damianus absently put an arm around his neck, as much to get him out of his face as to hold him, and scratched his ruff with his other hand.

He sat there a while, hating himself. Hating that he wondered how long it would be until Marius came back, when he was… done. Even as he didn't want to see his face again for a good long while. Even as he did.

He thought about doing something, but he didn't feel like doing anything. Thought about putting one of his holotapes on to fill the silence, but he found the last thing he wanted to see was other people happy and in love.

So, like the pathetic idiot he was, he hugged the dog's neck and just kept waiting.

***

Marius gave the Vault receptionist’s glower a nonplussed look, not daring to ask what her problem was. He pretended not to see, hunching his shoulders up a little, and scooted to the stairs before she could say anything.

Their room wasn’t too far from the entrance, and Marius slowed, stalling as he tried to put together an explanation. An apology, honestly. The look on Damianus’ face had been lingering in his mind’s eye for the entire walk back, and whatever he said to him had better be good.

He stopped in front of the door, hand hovering over the keypad. Explanation first, clear the air. Then… The rest kind of depended on how the first part went.

Marius punched in their code with a sigh. He hated having to wing it.

The lights were off when the door slid open. Marius held his breath, not sure if it was better or worse that things would wait until tomorrow, and tiptoed towards his bed. He could kiss a good night’s sleep goodbye—or what was left of the night—as he tried to think things over, but he should be grateful that—

There was a _click_ from the light on Damianus’ night stand, and Marius winced at the shadow he threw on the wall. He turned, watching Damianus sit up with a flat, grim expression. Beside him, Rex grumbled quietly and put a leg over his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Marius said, “I can explain.”

“I almost don’t care.”

Marius kept his hands in his pockets, trying not to fidget, and sat on the foot of his bed rather than loom over him. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you from the start,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure how to. But I got the tip about Groesbeck in exchange for a favor, going and talking to Joana for someone. I didn’t sleep with her.” Damianus’ eyed dropped, just fractionally, and Marius felt a little hurt grow in his chest. “You really thought I had?”

“It clearly doesn’t matter what I think,” Damianus said, with a bitterness that made Marius lean away. He seemed ready to go on, but pressed his lips tight in a frown as he reached for the light.

Marius reached for his arm, but Damianus drew away before he could connect. “It does matter,” he said, as Damianus scooted a little further away, pulling his legs up, defensive. Marius kept his hands on his lap, trying to relax his shoulders, to look calmer than he felt. “Damianus, _you_ matter. To me. I—”

He snorted, looking away with a sneer. “Since when? Since there’s no pretty woman here to distract you? Or did you make a pass at Sarah upstairs for good measure?”

“I would never have. And she looked ready to go over the counter at me anyway.” That at least seemed to mollify him a little, and Marius had a suspicion of where her look had come from.

"I don't even have to talk, you know. All I have to do is wait one second too long you'll just get bored and walk off. Need your sleep, don’t you?."

“When did…?” The night at the 188 trading post came to ming, staring at him, agonizing—and choosing silence. Marius wiped a hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Sure,” Damianus said, reaching for the light again. “I don’t want to talk about it. Go to sleep.”

“We said we’d talk about leaving the Legion,” Marius said. Damianus hesitated. “I’m not going to storm out on you. I swear. I’m sorry. But you wanted to talk about this, and…Here we are. I want to ”

He kept his hand out a moment longer, then folded his arms across his knees, waiting. Marius stared back at him, not knowing where to start. He looked small, miserable, smudges under his eyes from a few night’s poor sleep, but still alert and ready to move. He looked, more than anything, like he’d been cornered and was just waiting for an escape route.

_Hold him. Tell him you love him._

_He tried to make you kill a woman, this evening._

Marius finally sighed explosively. “Damianus,” he started, and petered out just as quickly. “Do you know why I’ve stayed with you this long?”

He shrugged, expression unchanging. “You’ve never said a kind word about me before,” he said, voice dull. “You mean to say you’re starting now?”

“I—” _have,_ but he sank back a little more. He’d thought them, maybe. And even then, he’d tried not to. “Yes,” he said at last, quietly. “Because I thought if I started, I wouldn’t want to stop.”

“How many people have you used that line on?”

“Just you.”

“Right.” His face twitched, not quite sneering again. “I’m just the short guy with a bad leg, I’m probably too stupid to see when you’re lying, too.”

He stared at him, the words sinking in. Marius put his hands over his face. “I never meant that as—”

“Didn’t you?”

“No!” Marius looked back at him, Damianus’ face gone hard and skeptical, but there was a faint shine of tears in his eyes. The words tangled in themselves as Marius tried to find something to say, and finally slid off the bed, kneeling on the floor beside him. “Damianus. I’m sorry. I am _so_ sorry. I’ve been so stupid and cruel to you from the start, and never deserved for you to put up with me so long. I can’t… You saved my life. More than once. That alone should have made me be better to you. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for that, and how ashamed I am for hurting you instead.”

Damianus didn’t move, still leaning away a little, unblinking. Marius fumbled inside his jacket, pulling out a square of cardboard folded into an envelope. “I kept this,” he said, showing him the drawing Damianus had done of him, some of the details smudged beyond recognition. “I kept it, because… I didn’t know how I felt about it. About you. I think I… I knew I’d been a bastard to you and maybe didn’t deserve your kindness. Something.” He realized he was babbling and pressed his lips tightly together, trying to think.

As he did, Damianus pulled the drawing out of his fingers, looking at it with his expression unchanging. “Because you _are_ kind,” Marius went on. “The Legion… I know what they’ve done to you. What they tried to make you, that… Despite everything, whenever you could, you were kind. To me. To strangers. To kids you found in the gutter. I thought if that was something you had held on to and kept hidden from the rest of the Legion… What else might you be capable of?”

He was looking at him now, head low. “So why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

Marius took a deep breath. “Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized… I meant it, that I wouldn’t have stopped telling you how kind you were. How clever, how gentle. How much I was going to miss you, because if we stayed in the Legion… It would have been that much harder to say goodbye.” Damianus didn’t reply, and Marius fumbled to fill the silence. “I wanted—I thought about… Things only _changed_ because the way I felt about you…”

He blushed, and after a moment Damianus caught on, looking away. “I was trying to make sure there was nothing there to lose,” Marius finished, quietly.

He sat back on his heels a little more, giving Damianus space to think it over. He stared down at the drawing, eyes unseeing.

"It was all I was waiting on," he murmured eventually, voice quiet and fragile. "I told you that, before the Madre. By the lake, I was—I was scared to leave because who else would take me, you know? Where else do I belong? I don't have anything to offer anyone and I was scared of being alone.”

Damianus sniffed, a bit wetly though his face was still dry, and laughed a little. It didn't sound very happy, but there was something approaching genuine humor in it. "You were waiting on me to leave before you'd feel safe to give me a kind word, I was waiting on you to give me a kind word to know I was safe to leave. We're both fucking idiots."

Marius turned it over in his head, a wry smile pulling at his mouth. “Absolute dumbasses,” he said, trying to put as much affection in it as he could. His breath caught a little, but… “Made for each other.”

Damianus made an expression not quite a grimace nor a smile, handing the drawing back. Marius caught his hand as he did. “I’ll listen,” he said, voice soft. “Alright? From here on out. Don’t leave me to guess, since it seems I…tend to guess wrong.”

“Please, just…We know where we are, now. Can we…Go from there?” He turned his hand over, a little hesitantly, to hold back more firmly. “And no more of this…” He thought a moment, then made a kissy face. Marius snorted, surprised, and Damianus laughed, if faintly.

“Not even with you?” Marius said, looking up under his brow. Damianus flushed so red it must have burned, and didn’t resist as Marius raised his hand to his lips, pressing them to his knuckles. Marius couldn’t breathe, holding it there a moment longer as he looked up at him.

_You nearly killed Luz because he told you to._

He ducked his head, letting go, not missing the goosebumps up Damianus’ arm. “It’s late,” he said as he stood.

“Yeah, it’s—” Damianus looked almost panicked, hands dithering like he couldn’t decide whether or not to scoot over on the bed.

“Goodnight,” Marius said, gently, as he stepped away towards his own.

“Goodnight,” he said, settling. He waited to turn out the light until Marius had sat down and gotten his boots off, but Marius caught a glimpse of him watching him, sidelong, with something like hope in his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

_”Edward?_ Really?”

“Really,” Marius said, sitting back in the diner booth. He watched another of Vault 21’s patrons go by as he gnawed on a sausage, letting them get out of earshot before continuing. “Calhoun and the others objected, but he decided that instead of sitting there as a prisoner, he’d take it upon himself to ‘educate’ the tribe exactly how you’d expect, with Graham as interpreter. And what have those pancakes ever done to you?”

“The agave syrup is free,” Damianus said, a little defensive.

“Not how much you’re using.” Marius shoveled the last bite of gecko egg into his mouth with a bit of toast. Pushing his plate away, he pulled his backpack up onto his lap, starting to peel off the tape holding the back panel on. “So he gives then some tactics, shows them how to properly handle a gun, and then what does he do but lead them to butcher another of the nearby tribes?”

Damianus stayed hunched over his breakfast as Marius kept talking, watching him intently as he ate. As far as most Legionaries knew, Caesar had simply _existed,_ his conquest of eighty-seven tribes begun in some mythic time after the bombs fell, the name Edward Sallow quietly allowed to fade away. It had clearly worked, given the way Damianus stared at him, absorbing the information like a patch of Mojave dust in the rain.

“Everything just went from there,” Marius finished, summing up the next thirty years of bloodshed with a shrug. He bit off a length of thread, getting it quickly through the needle and trying to figure the best place to start on his pack. “Any questions?”

He slowed down as he chewed, idly spearing a bit of pear with his fork. “Are you going to finish that?” Damianus said, pointing.

“Yes,” Marius said, pulling his last piece of toast away. “The jam here is actual grape, I’ve never had it before.”

“Trade you for a pancake.”

“Half.”

“Deal.”

He let Damianus shuffle the food around, carefully stitching the pack back together. He tried a bite of the pancake as he did, and was unable to taste it under all the agave. He kept his head down as Damianus mulled it all over, and finally said, “How many other people know?”

“Most people in touch with the Followers know, so a good chunk of the NCR. But the old man isn’t stupid, and keeps it quiet, so there’s only a handful out East,” Marius said. “So most high-ranking priestesses. Their direct agents. I suspect Lucius has a clue, they’re close. Maybe Vulpes, he’d play along with anything that let him keep being a sadist. But as a rule, the closer you get to the Legion’s founding, the better the odds are on knowing, and priestesses have a slightly longer life expectancy.”

Damianus nodded, mopping syrup off his plate with a last bite of pancake. “And Luz?”

His hand slowed, working the needle through the rather ratty fabric. “She was going to be a wife, but the priestesses had other ideas,” he said. “She’s been my superior for over a year, pointing me to information the Temple wanted and having it sent back East.”

Damianus kept his fork in hand, wiggling it a little as he thought. The rest of the diner seemed distant as he said, “I’m sorry,” quietly, eyes darting to Marius’ for just a moment before staring off past his ear. “You would have done it, because I…”

A server in a vault suit knelt on the bench to clear the table behind him, and Marius waited for her to leave. “I almost did,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Because you would have, if…No—” Damianus’ other hand was laying on the table between them, and Marius took it as he flinched away. “Listen. You thought it was the right thing to do, and I went along with it. Because I trust you. Just…” He tightened a his grip a little more, when Damianus wouldn’t look at him, and he tried to keep his voice light. “We have to work on ‘murder’ being your first solution.”

Damianus glanced around the room briefly, before squeezing his hand and drawing it away. “It’s all I know. I’m…” He shrugged, eyes down, shoulders slumped. “What if I can’t? What if I talk you into doing something, because you…” He stopped to swallow. “What if I make you do something unforgivable because you trust me?”

“You won’t.” Marius waited for him to look up, and held his gaze. “I’d say I wouldn’t do it, if you pushed me to, but… You know what happened with Luz was wrong. You won’t ask that of me again, because I’m trusting you to be a better man now. The one you are, but no one has ever asked you to be.”

Neither of them looked away, and Marius watched the flicker of his eyes as Damianus searched his own. There was that hope in them, as the fear faded, and it was like Marius had taken a breath too big for his chest to know how long that fear had been there, and how much he had ached to set it aside.

He realized Damianus had colored up as he stared, and finally put his elbows on the table, face in hands. Marius sat back a little, looking away, feeling his own face warming. “I can… I’m gonna go find Carlitos…”

Damianus nodded, face still hidden. Marius bumped into the table as he stood, hissing as he tried to steady it. He didn’t want to say he _ran_ deeper into the Vault, but… He’d meant every word of it, so why did he just want to hide? _Because_ he’d meant it?

He stopped in an empty junction in the depths of the Vault, yelling into the crook of his arm to muffle it, not sure what else to do with the feelings boiling in his chest.

***

Damianus made his way out of the Vault come evening, heading for Freeside with Rex at his heel. Carlitos had a favor to call in for some hired guns, to get he and Joana out of Vegas—Not remotely one of their duties, or even cover for them, but… It didn’t seem right to leave her there, when they could get her out of danger.

_Like with Ridley?_ Would Marius agree to it? Be willing to take the risk? Damianus almost couldn’t blame him if—

Rex dropped back beside him, ears pricked. Damianus followed his gaze to an NCR trooper approaching from the far end of the Strip, walking directly towards him with intent. Pretending he hadn’t seen, Damianus put his hands in his pockets—and closer to at least three knives—and hunched his shoulders as he angled for a group of well-dressed gamblers leaving the Ultra-Luxe. Any one of them was taller than him, and a couple gave him puzzled looks as he peered through him and said, “Crap,” under his breath. The soldier was still headed for him.

All he could think of was the fury on the faces around him, as Marius staggered out of Silus’ cell. Damianus broke from the group, headed for the gates to Freeside, as a voice called from behind him, “Hey, wait up!”

“No thank you!” He was already walking as fast as he could without running.

“Hang on! I’ve got—” Damianus glanced back at the trooper, now jogging along.

Damianus hopped a low barrier, cutting across a planter full of palm trees. “I don’t want any!”

A group was waiting for the Strip gate to open, and Damianus drove into them, elbowing his way to the front. “Hey, you wait your goddamn t—” A man had grabbed at him, and without thinking, Damianus had grabbed his thumb and wrenched it in a way it shouldn’t have bent. He stepped back, clutching his hand, and the rest of them backed away, forming a wall between him and the trooper.

He shot a look behind him—the gate had ground a little wider, and Damianus pushed through, metal scraping his chest and back. He waited just long enough to see Rex trot after him, panting, and took off down the Freeside thoroughfare.

***

“Well, that’s a few more women out of the Omerta’s tender mercies,” Marius said, watching the group disappear around a corner. “Should we go back for the rest?”

“We might,” Damianus said, mulling Joana’s warning about an Omerta plot as they headed for the alley exit. But getting the women out to safety… “This is sort of… A practice run?” Marius raised his eyebrows, a silent question. Damianus looked around them for watchers—the Legion had informants everywhere, after all…

“Should we go somewhere more private?” Marius said, with a glance at the usual Freeside residents wandering the street despite the hour. Damianus glanced up, and Marius ducked his head, rubbing at his nose. Twenty-four hours since they had… _admitted_ some things, and now everything felt like—

“Off the Strip,” Damianus said, trying to quash the blush that had started to rise again. The thought of Ridley looking at him, grim and certain, was like cold water down his neck. “Somewhere with fewer ears.”

***

The Mojave was dotted with old shacks and farmsteads, either abandoned when water dried up or crops failed, or the owners driven off by raiders. Marius stood a moment longer in the doorway of one, looking out over the Mojave dust, trying to pick out any shadows on the landscape.

Nothing had been mentioned, no threats made—but there wouldn’t have been, nor did they know every other Frumentarii on sight. Vulpes might have been barred from coming after them directly, but…

“There’s no way we were followed.”

He let his hand drop, shutting the door as he turned away. Damianus was sweeping dust off a chair before taking a seat, looking levelly at him. Marius shook his head. “Not this time,” he said, sitting across the table. “But Vulpes still knows something’s up. We might not get any more chances to speak privately, after this.”

Damianus nodded, taking a breath. He let it out slowly through his nose, lips tight. Knowing the signs, Marius leaned on the table and waited, arms folded. At last, Damianus let out the rest of the breath as a sigh, sitting up, and looked Marius not quite in the eye. “I asked you about your mother, a while ago.”

His heart thudded. Something—Anger? Dread?—was like a hand gripping the back of his neck. “You did,” he managed to say levelly. “I never asked you why.”

“I don’t know what I would have said, if you had,” Damianus said, and swallowed. “A slave approached me, at—in the Fort. A while ago. And I talked to her again, when I thought you’d…”

His gaze dropped, and Marius sat back. “I didn’t want to—I waited to find her again, since…” Damianus was feeling at his pockets, looking for something to fidget with, and Marius bit his tongue and waited. “If I got you involved, it would… I’d just be risking your life.”

He trailed off again with that thinking expression, and Marius gave in. “Who is she?” he said, something like fear keeping the words quiet.

Damianus looked up, away, resettled himself in his chair. “My mother.”

Marius couldn’t look at him a moment, until the emotions had cooled to concern. Until the guilt faded.

Because the first one to hit had been _disappointment._

_She’s dead and better off._

“Damianus?” He didn’t look up, and Marius reached across the table to him, hesitated—but they were alone, and whatever they _were_ otherwise. He laid his hand on his shoulder, squeezing against the tension in it. “Hey. What happened? Is she—” _alright,_ but for a slave in the Fort, he knew the answer. “What did she want?”

Damianus’ eyes widened at the touch, and for a second, Marius felt him draw up even tighter—only to relax, but still took a reflexive glance around the room, as if for witnesses before reaching up to hold his hand in place. “She wants me to get her out,” he said, head still low. “Her and some of the other women. They have a plan, but… They’ll need a distraction. And people on this side of the river.” He took a deeper breath and sat up, turning to face Marius. His hand slipped off his shoulder as he did, but he kept it cradled between his own, staring down at it as he went on, “I volunteered, knowing that if anything went wrong, it would only be my neck on the line. I can’t—I don’t want to make you do something this dangerous, for my sake, or for a women you’ve never even…”

He trailed off as Marius laced his fingers through his; a small motion, but one that turned his insides soft. “You don’t have to do any of this alone, any more,” he said, his voice a little husky. “Just tell me what you need, and I’m there.”

Swallowing hard, Damianus looked up at him as though he was scared to see the expression on his face. He blinked when he did, and Marius made no mention of the tear that ran down his cheek. It was that or reach up to brush it away, and… Just the thought put his heart in his throat.

“Alright,” Damianus said at last, voice rough. “Alright. Here’s what they’ve worked out…”

***

Marius sat on the floor of the Novac hotel, tools spread out around him. He peered at the note Damianus had given him before using some sort of hot tool to remove a part from a piece of scrap.

He _was_ good at this. Damianus sat on the couch with his chin in hand as he watched him, a hand-drawn map of the Fort forgotten. There was…something familiar in it, when he thought back to Ridley, even if it slipped out of his grasp as soon as he tried to pin the image down. But still…

“I think you’ll like her.”

Marius glanced up. He had tied his hair up loosely as he worked, and a piece had slipped down to frame his face. For a second, Damianus glanced away—then remembered he _could_ look, if he wanted, and all he could do was stare, heart tripping faster at how handsome he was.

He realized Marius was looking back, a sort of soft smile on his face, before tapping the note again. “If this is any indication,” he said, reaching for a spool of wire, “I can’t wait to meet her.” He set the bit of scrap in place, using the tip of the heated tool to melt the end of the wire. He stared at a second as it cooled, and added, like he was feeling the words out, “I think I’ll like your mother.”

Damianus had to put his face in his hands, overwhelmed. _His mother._ They’d bring her West, to safety, out of the war, away from the Legion. And he and Marius would…

He wasn’t sure, not completely. But they’d be free men, and his mother would be there. And they could find out what happened next, in their own time.

He realized Marius was looking at him, paused in his work with that warm smile on his face.

Damianus could only smile back, his chest nearly hurting for the hope in it.

***

Damianus walked with a deliberately heavy tread up the stairs, fair warning to anyone above him. He tapped on the door at the upper landing, further courtesy to someone with a reason to be both jumpy and heavily armed. The sniper still hadn’t turned as he approached, and Damianus leaned on the teeth that made up the lower barrier of the statue’s mouth. He looked out over the moonlit desert, trying to come up with an opening line, but—

“What do you want?”

Well, that took care of that. The sniper still had his back to him, watching the eastern approach, and Dixie almost grinned, sourly, at the fact that the only Legionary around was right behind him.

“I have a proposition…”

***

“There will be a raft of slaves coming across the Narrows tomorrow night. They’ll need cover coming in, and assistance to make the landing before they keep moving west.”

The Ranger stared back at Marius, eyes narrowed. The only sound was the canvas of the command tent flapping around them. “The only thing that comes across that river is corpses,” she said at last. “I’m not sitting here watching them get picked off one by one by shooters on the other side of the lake.”

“The Legion will have bigger problems than a bunch of slaves,” Marius said, cooler than he felt. “Trust me on that.”

She stared at him a moment longer, one finger tapping on her folded arm. “I know you from somewhere,” she said, low.

Marius made a gesture towards his temple, a laissez-faire salute. “Corporal Alex Rojas. Formerly.”

“The one who killed the centurion in McCarran, and has murmurs about desertion and a court-martial following him.”

He kept his face neutral, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” she said, letting her arms fall to her sides, ready to reach for a weapon. “But I think that might be a matter of time.”

Marius shrugged, backing out of the tent rather than lose sight of her. The Ranger stayed where she was, with no move towards a gun, and he risked another step. “So long as they aren’t after me yet.”

She watched him go, with a jaundiced eye. “You realize we can’t send anyone to escort these hypothetical slaves to wherever you’re taking them, and leave this post undermanned.”

He caught the implicit question, noticed the communications officer with his headset pushed off one ear, half-turned to listen. “We’re handling that part,” he said, stepping clear of the tent. “Tomorrow, Ranger. That’s all that matters right now.”

***

“You would be heroes, when word got out.”

The caravaner looked back at him over her knuckles, her face ruddy, cheeks shot with broken blood vessels. “The way caravans are dropping like flies to Fiends and Legion raids? I’m not getting involved with it.”

Damianus tapped his fingers on the bar, the Mojave Outpost still murmuring around them. “Then how long until your people are brought down? How long before contracts dry up?” He folded his arms on the bar top, leaning closer. “Name your price. You could walk away rich. Moreover, you prove that Cassidy Caravans has the guts to hold up _any_ contract, and face whatever the Mojave can throw at them.”

“Sounds too easy, just bringing a bunch of women back here.” She watched him sidelong, chin in hand, picking up a shot glass to slowly roll the bottom edge on the bar.

He watched her patiently, resisting the urge to fidget, and kept his face calm. “If it’s too easy, I can just ask Crimson Caravans instead.”

“Hell,” Cassidy muttered at last, grabbing a second shot glass. Pouring into both, she slid one to him. “The world turns on caps, and I ain’t making any sitting here. I’ll help you give the Legion the finger.”

***

Marius kept walking, pretending not to notice as Damianus dropped a bag against the Fort’s outermost wall, near the raft launch. Made of rough sacking, he had to trust it blended in with the dirt in the evening shadows, not risking a look. A few quick steps put Damianus beside him again, the bulk of the veteran Legionary’s armor unfamiliar in the corner of his eye. Voice low, Damianus said, “I’ll find her, make sure everything’s right, and deal with the packages.”

Marius only nodded, letting him slip off. He tugged at his own armor, uncomfortable after so long in civilian clothes—and exposed, almost, compared to the Legionaries moving through the Fort around him. He was allowed an explorer’s gear at most, as a Legion-territory courier, and had felt the point was important to make. Now he wished he had listened to Damianus and traded up for something heavier.

But the chance was past, and he had a role to play. He milled a little with Rex at his side, wandering to the small canteen closer to the Arena. The slave bundling up bags of healing powder caught sight of Rex first, before glancing at his face, and away, as he took a couple doses for himself. He gave no sign as he pulled up his hood and stepped away, one more layer of anonymity even if it didn’t fully hide his face. Most of the Legionaries took no notice, accustomed to seeing the cyberdog come and go, but a few stared—enough distraction for the woman behind the counter to discreetly step away, ducking out of sight with an empty bowl in hand; an excuse to find more xander root.

Marius loitered a minute more, tying the bags of powder onto his belt in quick reach, judging the time by the darkening of the purplish sky. Hoping he’d given Damianus long enough, he headed uphill, not hesitating as he approached the howitzer on its ridge. With more confidence than he felt, he looked it over, trying to figure out how to open the breech.

“What are you doing, there?”

_Interrupted screw,_ he realized, cold sweat giving way to relief. Swinging it open, he peered inside the chamber a moment before looking at the Praetorian headed for the rise to Caesar’s tent. “Checking that it’s in working order,” Marius said, straightening up. “I took parts from another device just like it, after all. Just wanted to be sure it was installed correctly.”

The Praetorian shrugged, turning to head up the path. Marius palmed something from a pouch on his belt as he closed the breech, pretending to scrutinize the rest of the mechanism before stepping away. Headed back to the center of camp, he caught sight of Damianus, who he could pick out on height alone. He gave Marius a discreet nod, which he returned. Marius watched just long enough to see him start moving, only to roughly shoulder-check a prime decanus going the other direction. He snarled something at Damianus, who returned it, stepping close and refusing to let him move forward.

No few Legionaries stopped to watch the casual entertainment of a fight breaking out. Marius slipped back towards the Arena slave pens, seeing Otho eagerly leaning in to observe, and gestured for Rex to stay and keep watch.

The pen beside Stella was empty, for better or for worse. She gave Marius a wary look as he approached, kneeling beside the lock, nearly dropping his screwdriver as he did. He gritted his teeth and tried to focus.

So much hinged on everything going right the first time, in this, and they had barely even begun. Marius could hear the altercation escalating, a few other men heckling Damianus from the sidelines, and tried to tune it out as he probed at the padlock. He couldn’t stall forever.

“I answer to Caesar, not some upstart with a death wish!”

“Some death wish, if you won’t face me in the Arena. Stop hiding behind our lord’s Mark—”

The bobby pin broke.

Stella sat up as Marius swore under his breath. He gave her a sheepish look as she held out her hands, a _What gives?_ gesture that made him shrug wildly. Hands shaking, he picked up the lock again, but fumbled at getting another pin in it. Looking at the setup of the door, he gestured Stella closer. “Hold this,” he whispered, hooking his fingers through the chain link. “Keep it from rattling.”

She obliged, almost pressing her face to it as she watched what he was doing. One end of the hasp was set into a wood frame, and he dug the screwdriver behind it, hammering it in with the heel of his hand. Using it as a lever, the screws pulled loose of the old wood, and he glanced over his shoulder. The crowd was dispersing, and he took one last, desperate yank. The hasp came free with a squeak of screws on wood.

Stella moved with the door, still holding the metal still. He held up a hand when she crouched, ready to slip off, and reached into his belt pouch. “Ten minutes. Less,” he whispered, holding out a revolver butt-first, with Damianus’ map of the Fort folded around a handful of spare ammo. “You’ll hear the signal.”

“I had better, prettyboy,” she said, sitting back on the bench inside, tucking the gun under her shirt. Marius flushed as he pressed the screws loosely back in place, disguising the damage, and headed back to where Otho was speaking with Damianus, almost rocking on his heels in delight.

“He can wait for me to speak with Caesar,” Damianus said, looking down his nose at him, height or not. “He’s already wasted enough of my time, _and_ our lord’s. Maybe he’ll use it as a chance to stand down.”

“The challenge is made,” Otho said, as the decanus on his other side bristled. “There’s no turning away now. Head to the Arena, Prisus, while we wait to be graced by the great Damianus, should he deign to join us...”

Damianus snorted as he turned away, falling in step with Marius and Rex. He leaned closer for a second, passing the detonator over, and Marius pocketed it without looking. “It’s all set?”

“Should work, she said,” Damianus murmured. He took a deep breath, letting it out between pursed lips as they headed up the hill. Torches were being lit against the night, and he waited until they had passed a Legionary with a brand. “Are you ready?”

_No._ “As I’ll ever be,” he said, trying not to feel sick. The Fort was fuller than it had ever been, men recalled from the Legion’s borders massing as they readied for battle on the Dam. Small blessing the Legate had to journey all the way from Colorado—but in the face of so many men, Marius wasn’t sure even he would make a difference.

_He’d make a difference if you survived long enough to face him._ Marius shuddered. Any Legionary could kill them. Lanius would make them suffer.

Damianus paused, just outside Caesar’s tent. The Praetorian standing before it recognized them, drawing the opening aside with a slight nod.

Marius looked over at him, Damianus looking steadily back. He took another of those deep breaths, and before Marius could react, leaned up on his toes to place a dry, abrupt kiss on his cheek.

The Praetorian drew away, still holding the flap. “What are you doing?”

Marius barely made out the men just inside craning to look. All he could see was Damianus, looking up at him with a mix of fear and resolve, intensely brave and ready to cast aside everything he had ever known for the sake of love.

He reached out, cradling the back of his head as he pulled him in, teeth accidentally scraping his with the force of the kiss. Marius could barely hear the nearest men protesting, holding him there another half-second, an eternity, trying to commit the smell and taste of him to memory, the softness of his lips, because he may well not have long to remember it.

They pulled away, both of them breathing like they’d been running. He stared up at Marius only a moment longer, before turning on the Praetorian who had his mouth open to yell, flicking a throwing knife from somewhere under his armor and into the guard’s throat. They pressed forward, the other Praetorians coming alert too slowly as they each bowled a grenade ahead into the tent, Marius on his left, Damianus the right.

Marius had his machete across the nearest man’s throat on the draw, before he could come ready, and the men further back in the tent were rushing ahead. He was dimly aware of Caesar standing, roaring, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?” as he focused on a ballistic fist bearing down on him.

Damianus was fast enough he could have pressed ahead, but backed away with Marius as the Praetorians advanced, ducking his head and covering his face as he counted. The frag grenades went off, the men between them and the tent taking the brunt of the blast, two of them falling and leaving a space for Damianus to charge. The next in the line turned to follow, and Marius’ machete bit deep into the back of his neck, leaving him to wrench it free as he forged ahead, gutting the next man, closing in on Damianus’ back.

There was a growl from behind him, and he turned in time to see Rex tackle another man, no larger than a normal dog but far heavier, pinning him to the ground as he savaged him. Marius looked ahead in time to see Damianus lunge at Caesar, who stood wiping at the shrapnel wounds on his front with a disbelieving expression. Damianus hit him hard enough to throw him onto his throne, the whole thing tumbling over backwards.

Lucius wavered, Marius closing on on one side, his lord vulnerable on the other. Marius pressed the advantage, hacking nearly through an arm on his first swing. Lucius turned, snarling, trying to kick at Rex as the dog dove for his legs, leaving him wide open as Marius drew the machete back for one final thrust.

He looked over as he wiped the weapon clean on the Praetorian’s cape, ears still ringing from the blast, just able to hear a faint gurgling past it. Damianus stood with a foot on Caesar’s chest, staring down at the old man as he struggled to breathe, one hand trying to close the gaping wound in his throat. There was fury and confusion on his face as he choked, Damianus not looking away, unmasked and stone-faced, letting Caesar witness all his hubris had achieved.

Marius had to look away, closing his eyes at the carnage around them. Shouts were coming closer from the lower parts of the camp, and Marius pulled up the scarf he’d tucked under his hood. He had to swallow before he said, “Damianus?”

Caesar had fallen silent, still. Damianus stepped away, slinging his pack around and pulling a decanus’ helmet from it. Marius drew the detonator from his belt pouch as they made their way to the back of the tent, took a breath, and shared a nod with Damianus before pulling the trigger.

They could hear the _crack_ of the explosives clearly from the height, the one from the howitzer almost deafening, as they climbed out under a panel in the back of the tent. Smoke was rising from each of the gates headed to other sections of the Fort, where the bulk of the Legion was quartered. Men rushing up the hill stumbled to a halt to watch, torn, and Damianus pointed to the path to the river. _”Curre,_ Rex. _Gradere domus.”_

“You can’t tell me he understands—” Marius started, but Rex gave a sharp bark and streaked down he hill, too fast for most men to do more than catch a glimpse of him. Marius stared. “I guess he does.”

“Come on.” Damianus tugged on his arm, drawing him away. The two of them melted into the back of the crowd at the base of the rise, following the confused rush to put out the fires spreading along the Fort’s walls.

He could hear the shouting of people demanding to know what had happened, to no answer—until a man running down the hill bellowed, “Assassins! Caesar has been killed!” A chorus of cross-talk followed, demanding if the NCR had snuck men in, the Rangers, one man swearing he had seen a black-armored veteran in the crowd, until—

“Traitors! Those Frumentarii were the last to approach—”

Barely past the tents lining the approach to the central hill, the two of them shared a look. Damianus stepped faster, jogging along beside men with buckets of dirt and water, and Marius moved to keep up. Glancing over, he realized there was still a spray of fresh blood on Damianus’ armor, and looked down to see the same on his own. He nudged Damianus aside, hiding beside the gate downhill and the nearest tent, grabbing a blanket from inside it as he cleaned the blood away.

“Two men—the Frumentarii? In civilian clothes?” A centurion had put himself in the middle of the crowd, the other men orienting on him instinctively.

“In uniform,” another man said, and Marius growled. Fucking Otho. “An explorer and a veteran, and they had that cyberdog with them—”

There was a shout in the back of the group, a recruit with black hair shoved away by another man. “Not _me!”_ he shouted, shoving back. “I was with you when—”

Suspicion caught nearly as fast as the fires on the walls, only a handful of men able to recognize the two of them on sight, the rest turning on every veteran and lightly-armored Legionary in the group. Damianus steered them away, back on the path to the river, taking the risk of crossing the open space in the dark. They were nearly to the bottom of the stairs, when from above—

“There! The decanus, the short one! Kill him!”

The nearest men were slow to track, and the two of them were a few paces past before pursuit started. Marius spun, slashing with his machete, forcing his nearest opponent back. Another man rushed past him, and Damianus intercepted him with a knife flashing in either hand. Marius snatched a torch along the path in his left, brandishing it to keep one man at bay while he dealt with another.

He heard more footsteps pounding at his back, and had to deflect a machete as it swung for his head. Stabbing for its wielder, he overreached, and only had time for his eyes to widen as another man loomed, blade raised high.

A red flower seemed to bloom on his forehead, the force of it snapping his head back. He didn’t have time to see where the shot had come from, rebalancing himself and managing a couple strides forward before more men blocked their path. He could feel Damianus standing at his back, stepping away in darting blows at the other Legionaries. Another man fell before him, gunfire tearing through his chest and throat, and Marius spared a glance. “Get to the other group!” he shouted, waving an arm. “They need a fighter, cover them!”

Stella broke cover from beside a boulder, charging across an empty space to catch up with them. “Won’t get that far without cover of my own,” she said, barely panting. She reached for the rifle on Marius’ back, and he shrugged out of the sling. “And neither will you.”

There was no more chance to talk, another wave of Legionaries pressing them from the hill. Marius had no attention for anything but the thrust and parry of blades, sheltering Stella as she took out the shooters trying to get vantage from the height. A man bore down on Marius with a spear, too close to throw, and Marius dropped the torch to grab the haft, yanking him forward into a headbutt. Stunned, the man was easy work with his machete, and a lull in the fight saw them charging towards the Fort’s outer wall. His grip on the spear was awkward, and he tossed it to Damianus, who caught it without breaking stride, turning in one smooth motion to take down the leading man behind them.

The final gate to the river was a drawbridge, and Marius dragged one of the counterweights along as he passed through it, Damianus doing the same on the other side. Even hauling together, the gate didn’t close fully, fouled on the ropes pulled back through, but was enough to stop all but the most determined men. Marius dropped his and turned, drawing up short as he nearly ran into Stella’s back.

A line of Legionaries stood between them and the river, Vulpes Inculta at their center. Near the edge of the water, two men were holding Rex at bay with spears, snarling, another two dead on the sand beside him. “I thought you might plan to leave alive,” Vulpes said, slow and vicious. “Cowards that you are, _fleeing_ instead of having the honor to die with your deed done.”

He gestured to his men, stepping up almost as one, but Vulpes stayed immobile, eyes never leaving Marius. He tried to wade into them, covering Damianus’ back, but Vulpes charged, forcing him to defend. He was armed with a Ripper, and the impact of machete against the toothed chain threatened to jar it from Marius’ hand. He shifted his grip, knocking Vulpes’ blows aside rather than contact. Too easily—Marius caught him turning, ever so slightly to watch the gate to the Fort, heard the hammering of machetes trying to hack through the heavy ropes holding the counterweights.

He looked with him, and Vulpes used his distraction to try and rake at his midsection, pushing Marius to sidestep even further from the others, but couldn’t spare a moment to see how they fared. Firelight grew, and smoke drifted over them, tents and walls had gone up like tinder in the desert, and the quickest route to the river was cut off. Marius fought the urge to cough, trying to keep his eyes on Vulpes—who was just out of his reach, trying to goad him into lunging, into another stupid overstep that would leave him vulnerable.

Playing with him. He didn’t want Marius dead. Not yet.

Marius feinted high, but Vulpes was smart enough not to fall for it, and a tooth of the Ripper snagged the edge of his hood as he aborted a swing at his gut. But it put him in range, and Marius drove the blade at his throat—but the Ripper was faster, and Marius had to evade, stepping aside once, again, moving away from the others and the fight closer to the river.

He caught a glimpse of Damianus and Stella, stuck in the open back-to-back, Rex doing what he could against men who realized the threat he posed. He saw Damianus lunge, disarming a man with a gun and plunging a knife into his belly as he did, but another was ready to take his place, a shotgun in hand, and—

Marius cried out as the Ripper growled, digging into the meat of his right arm. He kicked out, managing to send Vulpes staggering back, but felt the heat of the burning wall behind him as he tried to gain space, clutching at his arm. Vulpes glanced at the wound, assessing, and bared his teeth without humor. “Survivable,” he said, voice cool. 

Marius gasped as he tried the tighten his grip on the machete, and stumbled further back. His feet slipped on loose, water-polished stones, and Vulpes kept approaching, slow, confident. “It would be a pity to see you dead so quickly, Frumentarius,” he said, almost casually. “It will be my utmost pleasure to extract from you every ounce of intelligence you possess. You know our methods. You know to fear them. I _will_ learn what spurred on this betrayal—” Marius couldn’t lift his arm to defend as Vulpes raised the Ripper, “—and will use it to _educate_ better men than you.”

Marius didn’t raise his eyes to his, slumped in exhaustion, trying to staunch the blood from his arm—and watching Vulpes’ feet, waiting until they crunched on the patch of smooth pebbles.

“And how would I convince you to speak? We will have to leave your tongue in place, to begin. However there are other, less vital—”

Gritting his teeth, Marius tossed his machete from his right hand—his off-hand, the one he had been trained to fight with, regardless—and into his left. Vulpes hesitated as he swung, and shifted his stance to defend. One boot went out from under him, on the loose, smooth rocks. Marius moved with him, hooking his other leg and flipping his machete underhand with a flourish Damianus would have been proud of, and drove the point down until he felt steel scrape sand.

There was a shout from one of his men, and there was no time to gloat—Marius kicked the body off his blade and threw himself at the rest of them. A few fled, at the back of the group, seeing their leader fall, and the rest were felled by Damianus and Stella, taking advantage of their confusion. “The raft,” Damianus panted, then dug his feet in to run back to the edge of the Fort wall and the bag he’d dropped. The banging at the gate had gotten louder, men behind it finally moving in concert as they tried to knock it open, and he charged back to the raft that Marius and Stella were dragging into deeper water.

Rex barked and leapt onto the platform, and Stella hopped on, helping Marius to climb aboard. Grabbing a pole from the bank, Damianus vaulted to the raft, making Stella swear and the whole thing slosh alarmingly. Marius meant to look up, admonishing him for showing off, but he caught sight of the mess that had been his upper arm, and the pain hit like a ballistic fist, leaving a ringing in his ears.

He came to slumped forward, nearly folded in half where he sat. He stared uncomprehending at the cloth that Damianus had clamped over the wound, and the stimpak laying on the raft beside them. His other hand was rubbing the back of his head and neck as he murmured, “Marius? Wake up. Please. Come on…”

“Where’d you get that?” Marius mumbled, trying to take deep breaths and drive the dark edges away from his vision. “The stimpak.”

“From here,” Damianus said brightly. He held open the bag he’d grabbed, another half-dozen needles catching the moonlight. He sobered as Marius nodded vaguely, kneading again at his neck. “Are you alright?”

“Tired,” he said. It felt like a stupid thing to say, but was true—the medicines had dulled the pain in his arm, but the fading adrenaline had left him shaking and weak as he tried to sit up.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” Stella said from the back of the raft, poling them along. “Lay him down if he looks like he’s gonna pass out again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Damianus said, crisply, never looking away from Marius. _”Are_ you alright?”

“Better. Just shock,” he said. He shut his eyes again, enjoying the feeling of his hand running over the fine stubble on the back of his head. But his eyes shot open again as he straightened, glancing back over his shoulder at Stella. Damianus caught the look and almost fell backwards, red-faced.

But instead of surprise or judgment, she was just looking at them both sidelong, and said slowly, “Neither of you strike me as men who played the long game, to get in close to Caesar. You’re both from the East or I’m retiring to become a brahmin baron’s trophy wife.”

Damianus took a breath, slowing as he pulled a roll of bandage out of the bag. “We are from the East,” he said, quietly.

She looked from him to Marius. “And you killed your own leader. Men trained to slit your own throats before capture, who believe Caesar is a god, and that wiping out the West is the closest thing you have to divine wrath.”

“Yes,” Damianus said, simply.

“Why?”

Marius heard Damianus take a deep breath before blowing his lips out in a sigh, the answers too convoluted—or too many—to articulate, as he wrapped the bandage on Marius’ arm.

“Ma’am,” Marius said instead, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “Do you know the rumors that exist in the West, about… Relations, between Legionaries?” She nodded, with a glance at Damianus, and he went on. “With as long as you were in the Fort, you do know that Caesar punishes it with death?”

She tipped her chin up, starting to understand. Damianus tucked the end of the bandage under, and when he would have shied away, Marius caught his hand, not looking at either of them. “It’s part of it, anyway,” he said at last.

“And these other women?”

Damianus went to relieve Stella as they explained. Marius stayed where he was, only turning when Rex _woofed_ gently, watching the canyon ridge to the east. Distant shapes ran along the edge, pausing as they neared, and with starlight behind him, Marius just barely made out a man pointing to their raft.

“We’ve still got a fight ahead of us,” Damianus said as he punted them along. Stella was still watching them warily, reloading the rifle she’d taken from Marius—he hadn’t even felt her take his pack and spare ammo. “We’re headed out through Cottonwood, to draw more men off of the women. We have someone set up to cover us, but it won’t be easy, and I won’t blame you if you—”

“Kid, you know where I’ve been the last few weeks,” she said, double-checking the safety on the gun before setting it aside. “If you think I won’t take every chance I can get to put some Legion assholes in the dirt, you’ve read me wrong.”

Damianus nodded and kept his head down, staring at the wood of the raft instead of her. Marius reached into the rough bag, pulling out his and Damianus’ civilian clothes. Starting to tug at the laces on the front of his armor, Marius paused. “Uh, ma’am, if you could maybe… Turn around…”

The Ranger actually rolled her eyes. “Tell you what,” she said, standing. “Now is not the time for kid gloves. I’ll push the raft, and you two can keep your backs to _me_ while you change.”

Damianus passed her the pole a little meekly, trading places with her. They shucked out of their armor as efficiently as they could, and Damianus stood a moment, the shoulder pads in hand. Looking out over the water, he leaned back before throwing the armor with all his might. It spun in the air a moment before splashing hard, sinking out of sight into the Colorado, sending up ripples that caught the moonlight.

Marius almost laughed, reaching for where he’d dropped his, sending it flying after. The rest of their kit followed, and without a word, it became a competition to see who could throw farther. He was grinning as his wadded-up tunic with with a wet, ignominious _smack,_ the last time he would ever have to wear it.

They were going west, with Ridley. They’d be free men, and he’d never have to wear red again.

He reached down for his civilian clothes, jeans and shirt and a jacket that was a little worse for wear at this point. Damianus took a moment longer to strip, his armor heavier, and Marius was gesturing to take a turn at poling them along by the time he had gotten his pants and hooded shirt on. Damianus’ foot knocked into his helmet as he turned to face them, and he paused, picking it up.

The feathers on the veteran’s helmet fluttered in the breeze as he stared at it, his face unreadable. “Do you know how long I wanted to wear this?” he said, hefting it a little. “How proud I thought my contubernia would be? My brothers?”

He took one last, deep breath before pitching it away, watching it hit the water, and stared after it a long moment once the ripples had faded. Aware of Stella still watching them, Marius said nothing. He had no way of saying if his friends would have been proud of him, now, but…

Marius was. It would have to be enough.

***

It was pitch dark by the time they reached Cottonwood, with only one Legionary half-dozing at the end of the dock. He came awake as Damianus threw the rope on the pier, automatically reaching down to wrap it round the cleat. The three of them stepped off the raft, Stella at the rear, and Damianus heard as they passed, “Where’s Lucullus?”

“Stayed at the Fort,” he said, not turning back.

“Oh.” He still sounded half-asleep, but his vice was sharper as he said, “Hey! She’s got a—”

Stella didn’t hesitate, firing one round at close range. A few men around the fire jumped to their feet, and one dropped immediately in a spray of gore. Shouts went up, men staggering out of tents in reply, and the tree of them were on the defensive. Damianus’ shoulders burned as he flicked a knife from his belt and sent it spinning into the chest of an oncoming Legionary. He drew his machete, squaring up to take on the man behind him—only for him to fall, part of his head ripped away from the impact of a high-powered bullet.

“Your backup’s shooting like First Recon,” Stella panted behind him. “Tell me we’re so lucky.”

“He is, ma’am!” Damianus shouted, not looking back.

She actually managed to laugh. “Hallelujah! We might get out of this alive.”

The fight was short, pitched, compared to what they’d survived at the Fort. Their sniper on the crest behind the camp pulled enough men away to keep their targets spread out, confused, even the centurion leading them hesitating long enough for Marius and Stella to close in.

In the pen in the middle of camp, the three slaves were pressed low, under the level of gunfire. Damianus homed in on the figure half-hidden beside it, who broke and ran as Damianus neared. Kicking out, he forced the slavemaster to stumble, and a single well-aimed slash as he fell saw him dead before he hit the ground.

Damianus paused, head up as he listened. Cottonwood had gone quiet, the contingent either killed or fled, and he stooped to pull a ring of keys from the slavemaster’s belt. The lights on the slaves’ collars made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, glowing red eyes staring at him in the dark. He picked through the keys for the one to the pen, and beckoned them closer as the door swung open.

He found the key to the collars, a short, stubby thing with electrical contacts on one end. His hand shook as the woman, the mother, stepped closer, shadows cast up on her face from the light on the collar, turning her fearful expression into something ghastly. Damianus looked back over his shoulder, trying to swallow his heart out of his throat. Maybe Marius should do this, he was better with tech—but he was leaning back against one of the crosses, hands forming a stirrup so Stella could cut down the man hanging from it.

“Are we safe?” The woman’s voice quavered, low, like she expected another Legionary to leap out of the dark at them.

Damianus swallowed again. He knew what it would look like, after the charge went off—and from arm’s length away, he would be able to see as it happened, a series of beeps their only warning before—

“You’re safe,” Damianus said, setting his teeth and letting himself go stone-faced to hide his flinch as he slotted the key into the collar. It beeped once, and to hear it was like claws running up his back, and abruptly he could smell the fear on himself—but the light went off, the lock whirring as it let go, and he caught the collar as it came free.

Relief hit like cold water poured down his back, and Damianus had to steady himself. He set the collar aside, carefully, and the boy pushed his sister forward. He didn’t breathe until the two of them were free, and gestured for them to follow him to the path out of camp. Marius had the bag of stimpaks open on the ground, kneeling beside a man in Khan armor. Stella had stepped away as she called something to the sniper, coming down from the ridge, and shook his hand vigorously as soon as he was in reach.

Damianus hung back, not ready to relax. Eyes on the shadows, he gestured to Marius. “We ought to keep moving. Meet up with them.”

“Yeah.” Marius stood, leaving the Khan looking at their group in confusion. He frowned at Damianus’ expression, and added, more quietly, “They made it.”

That was a different fear, that took longer to sink in—there had always been the chance that Ridley and the others didn’t make it, of course, but the rush of their own victories had driven it out of his head. Realizing Marius was still watching him, concerned, he managed a gesture that was neither a nod or shake of the head. “We’ll find out,” he said, looking to the rescued family. “Ma’am, do you have anywhere to go?”

A few rounds of questions made for a resounding _no_ and Damianus tried not to sigh in frustration. They had to get going. “Look,” he said, sizing up the rest of the group. “There’s the Followers of the Apocalypse in Freeside, if someone can keep you safe as far as—?”

Stella caught his questioning look, and shook her head. “Staying with you,” she said, coolly. Marius’ rife was still slung at her chest, barrel down but quick to bring to bear. “I want to make sure the others are alright.”

He watched her a moment longer. There was no way she could know Ridley or the other women—some sort of principled stand, then. Against the two of _them._

He heard Marius take a breath through his teeth at the implication, but all he did was gesture to the sniper, lingering suspiciously at the edge of the group, and the Khan, wincing as he tested his legs. “Between the two of you, can you get them to Freeside? We’re targets right now, and have to keep moving.”

“That’s rich,” the Khan scoffed. “I’ll take them there myself, since you can’t trust a murderer like him with a woman and kids.”

The sniper tensed, and both of them were stepping up to intervene when Stella shouted, “Hey!” Even Rex looked up at her, jaw set, hand a little too close to the trigger of her gun. _“You_ owe these guys, and _you_ know these people don’t deserve to be left here. Suck it up, both of you. If I can keep working with a couple Legionaries, the two of you can get this done.”

The Khan lowered his head a little, chastened, but the sniper was looking at the two of them in dawning rage, opening his mouth to speak. “We’re going,” Damianus said abruptly, grabbing Marius’ arm.

He half-ran away from Cottonwood, until Marius shook him off to jog alongside. “You didn’t clue him in?” he panted, shooting a look behind them as Stella followed.

“I didn’t want to get shot!” Damianus waved for him to face forward and keep moving. “And I don’t want to get shot now!”

“He’s got sunglasses on!”

“And he was pasting heads left and right! You want to see how well he shoots if he takes them _off?”_

Marius blew out a breath as he put his head down, keeping up. Whether It was agreement or scorn, Damianus couldn’t say.


	12. Chapter 12

They met the caravan south of Boulder, getting swept up to trail behind like any other set of mercs. There were a few other guards there already, who gave them suspicious looks—one of which Marius recognized, looking out from under a hat, the woman who had been handing out healing powder in the Fort. He dropped his eyes, giving her a slight nod, and she looked away. It was too dark to see inside the two covered wagons, but a small round face peered out from the rearmost, a teddy bear tucked up under the girl’s chin.

False dawn was starting to touch the sky, and Marius wiped at his eyes, exhausted from a day and a night of hard work. He half-turned to speak to Damianus, asking if they had planned to stop today, but came up short. The person in the corner of his eye was indeed slight and had a shaved head, and every other step was accompanied by a faint _click,_ but her features were older, finer, even if they were unsettlingly similar to Damianus’.

An arm’s length away, Ridley turned her gaze ahead, pretending she hadn’t been studying him. He tried to keep the same courtesy, only watching out of the corner of his eye, but it was eerie to see her, so clearly his family. Belatedly, he thought he should go introduce himself, but she was pulling away to speak with Stella, in civilian clothes they’d managed to scavenge.

Marius shrugged. They’d have more time to talk later, without the Legion breathing down their necks. Looking around, he dropped back to fall in beside Damianus, holding rear-guard position with Rex. He looked as tired as Marius felt, but didn’t let it stop him from sweeping the horizon, checking behind them every few minutes. “We should stop for a little while closer to dawn,” Marius said. “Look like we’d stopped for the night, give us a brief rest.”

Damianus looked at him a little blankly for a second, then yawned hugely, covering his mouth. “I can’t argue with that,” he said, on the tail end of it. “Is your arm doing better?”

“Sore. I’ll live,” Marius said, flexing it a little. More than sore, and weak down into his hand, too, not that he’d admit it right now. “Have you talked to her?”

He swallowed, glancing toward the caravan and where Ridley walked in the lead. “Not really. Not _yet,”_ he added, a little bolder. “We have enough going on right now. We’ll get to safety, then…”

“Then we’ll have as long as we need,” Marius said. Damianus didn’t look away from her, something lost about his expression, anxious. Marius nudged him gently, getting his attention, and if the smile he managed was a little feeble, Damianus’ was too.

They camped for only a brief rest near dawn, the women who had been riding in the wagons standing lookout in ill-fitting, mismatched clothes while those who had been walking took a break. Damianus talked Marius into resting first, as the one who had been injured, and he barely protested as he lay down in the shadow of one of the wagons, using his pack as a pillow.

It made for restless sleep, and not enough of it, half-dozing as the women muttered to one another and the sun broke the horizon. He smelled a campfire being lit about the same time Damianus shook him awake, and he got up sluggishly as Damianus lay down. He pressed a hand on his shoulder a moment; a discreet sort of affection, but one that made his mouth curve up in a smile, even as he closed his eyes.

They played at being any group of caravners breaking camp for the morning, even putting together a cold meal from the stores in the wagons. Marius kept up an informal patrol around them, only pausing as he heard footsteps approach. One of the younger women held out a plate for him, which he took with a slightly surprised, “Thank you.”

“Thank _you,”_ she said, looking at him anywhere but in the eye, and scurried back to where the others were sitting. He could hear at least one of them hissing admonishment at her as she sat, head meekly ducked, and a few other watched for his reaction.

And among them was Ridley, with a flat, unreadable expression that nevertheless felt ready to bore holes through him.

He tried not to pay it any mind, eating quickly and ignoring their stares.

***

The day was an exhausted slog, but mercifully quiet. They swung off of Highway 95 and onto a smaller road running parallel to it to the west, keeping distance on Cottonwood and the nearby areas. Belatedly, Damianus realized there was a Ranger station along it, not remembering until he noticed Stella staring at the ruined camp off the highway.

_I’m sorry_ felt like a feeble apology, and far too late. He hadn’t ordered the destruction of the camp, nor been there to perpetrate it. He had just been a Legionary somewhere in the Mojave when it had happened…which was, quite honestly, guilt enough.

Stella seemed to feel him looking, and turned back with her jaw set hard. She raised a finger and held it between them, a warning as her throat worked but no sound came out. “Don’t say _anything,”_ she managed at last, sounding choked.

The rest of the women were even less talkative, looking at he and Marius with fear, hesitation. The caravaner, Cassidy, had agreed to put women in charge of driving the wagons, and he heard them talking to the rescued slaves, tentatively. He couldn’t take it personally, not after everything they would have suffered. Just south of Novac, he kept his distance as they set up camp, the following evening. He found a ridge to keep lookout, knowing they were still too close to the river and Cottonwood to let their guard down.

They were so close. He felt almost sick at how near they were to freedom, and how far their last leg might be.

One of the women came up to relieve him—one of the caravaners, or one of the slaves, and he was a little ashamed he didn’t know. Ridley had freed some dozen women and girls, more than he had thought possible, even if it were only a handful in the grand scheme of things. She gave him a distrustful look either way, as he went down to the camp. At least one of them had found the energy to cook, and something involving gecko eggs and unidentifiable vegetables was being doled out. Marius glanced back, handing him a bowl before taking a new one for himself.

He took it, gratefully, still too tired to do anything but sit on the ground and start shoveling food. Marius sat next to him, cross-legged, eating with the same intensity of a man who didn’t have the luxury of tasting his meal, but rather, was just trying to put enough fuel in his body to get to the next day. He noticed Marius slow as he finished, looking across the fire, then away.

Damianus followed his gaze. Ridley was watching at the two of them, bowl half-forgotten on her lap, frowning. He didn’t meet her eye, or even acknowledge her attention, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes went through a series of motions he’d gotten used to in others—studying the long-healed gash on his cheek, the glance for nicks on his scalp that interrupted the stubble of his hair, a longer, more thoughtful look at his bad leg. He risked a look at her face, struck by how tired her eyes were, the unhappy line of her mouth.

His heart clenched. Was she displeased with what she saw?

With him?

Ridley noticed his attention at last, and her gaze shifted to the middle distance, impersonal. After a moment, she said, a little gruffly, “Good work on that detonator.”

Sitting closer to her, Marius raised his head, a little uncertain. “Thank you,” he said. “I was impressed with the explosives. I had no idea you had so many.”

She shrugged, expression unchanging. “I’ve learned to help things fall through the cracks.”

Her tone didn’t invite more conversation, and Marius shifted, glancing toward the edge of camp. Damianus let him get a head start on patrol before the silence around the fire grew oppressive, and he muttered some excuse and went to join him, gesturing for Rex to stay—with little need, the women grown used to him enough to indulge his begging for scraps.

Marius had his back to the camp, staring into the dark with that blank look of someone letting their eyes adjust to it. He held out a hand as Damianus approached, dithering a little, and finally settled with pressing it against Damianus’ back. He leaned on Marius’ shoulder, gently, and they stood like that a moment against the cold, before both speaking at once.

“Tonight’s the most likely time—”

“Do you think she—”

Damianus made a face, and Marius grinned at him, lopsided. He gestured for Damianus to continue, and he took a deep breath before forging on. “Do you think she’ll come with us?” It sounded stupid, needy—a child’s question—and Damianus bit his lip and wished he could unsay it. But he _was_ her child, her son—that had to count. Somehow. Even now, after so long apart. “When we go West. Do you think we’ll stay together?”

Marius’ hand shifted to his waist, pulling him into a sideways embrace. Damianus put an arm around him in turn, the affection so easy and so unfamiliar, something he’d craved for so long, that it put a lump in his throat. “I don’t see why not,” Marius said, when Damianus didn’t go on. “We’ve worked hard to get this far, together. She sought you out. She’s your mother, Damianus.”

He couldn’t speak, but leaned his head on his shoulder, nodding once. Marius rested his cheek atop his head, and he felt his lips move as he spoke, “We’ll go West together. We’ll have time to get to know each other. We’ll get to start over.” There was an ache in Marius’ voice that made Damianus pull him closer, and he held him just as hard. “We’ll get to start over,” he said again, voice rough. “Everything’s going to get better, for all three of us.”

Damianus could only nod into his chest, Marius’ hand rubbing the back of his head. This was their chance. It was going to be okay.

He pushed away, unable to stop himself from taking an embarrassed glance around for watchers. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone step behind the nearest wagon.

The faint _click_ of a prosthetic leg followed her away.

“Tonight’s the most likely time for an attack. There’s no way they haven’t been searching for us.” Marius hadn’t let his hands go, his back slightly to the camp—he hadn’t seen her. “We ought to keep a double watch, just in case.”

Damianus swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, giving his hands a squeeze. “I’ll see if there’s volunteers for it. No one’s gotten enough rest lately.”

“You’re telling me,” Marius said, wry. He raised his hands to his lips, and Damianus had to fight not to go weak at the knees. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost there,” Damianus agreed, wishing it would drive the worry away.

***

Marius was wrong about an attack during the night. It came just after dawn, instead, a group of recruits trying to charge them from cover. They were cut down fast, the Legionaries disorganized and most of the caravaners a capable shot, but it put a fire under them for the rest of the day as they ground towards the Outpost.

Little conversation was had, he and Damianus ranging wider to spot any incoming Legionaries, most of the former slaves back in the wagons to keep them out of sight. All it would take is one man reporting back with their location or their likely goal, and another, larger group would come down on them, better-armed, more experienced, with an actual officer to lead, and then—

Marius shook his head, picking up his feet. He was tortuously tired, but letting his mind wander now could get all of them killed.

And a few more hours of it would see them free of the Mojave, and he’d never fear the Legion’s vengeance again.

But the day remained quiet, even the raiders stalking the highway sizing them up and deciding they weren’t worth the effort. They headed for the setting sun, shining through the gap in the mountains with the statue of two men, clasping hands. More of the women got out to walk, having rested all day, lightening the brahmins’ loads. The whole group felt the finality of it, the sky going dark behind them, urging them faster, urging them West.

Damianus closed back in with the caravan from the north side of the freeway, Rex in tow, Marius from the south. He took a deep breath, trying to chase the tension away, smiled as Damianus looked at him with that rising hope. Ahead of them, the women were talking with each other, laughing, and Stella had jogged several paces ahead, raising a hand to the Rangers standing by the road into the Outpost. Marius couldn’t resist one last look back at the Mojave, sunlight just touching the tops of the mountains, gold against a violet evening sky.

Damianus had stopped beside him, and reached to take his hand. Marius held it tight, letting go reluctantly as they turned to catch up with the caravan. A few of the Outposts’ inhabitants had wandered out to watch; soldiers, other caravaners, and a few Rangers closer to the gate to the Long 15. Marius heard one of them talking to Stella. “It was Lineholm who got the word out,” she said, a sniper rifle slung on her back. “She didn’t know what route you’d be taking, but all our stations were watching the roads.”

A Ranger in a cowboy hat was unlocking the gate, waving the women ahead. “We’ve arranged with Dead Man’s Springs to get all of you debriefed and looked after, off of the front. You’re in the clear, ladies. Welcome to New California.”

Some of them were crying openly, taking the Rangers’ hands in thanks, while some still hung back, wary. Ridley was in the middle of the pack, and Marius caught a glimpse of her face, calm and almost expressionless. Putting a hand on Damianus’ arm, he tried to draw him forward and catch her up.

The Ranger at the gate—the commanding officer for the Outpost, Marius thought—looked at them as he did. “You two stop there. We have some questions for you.”

Damianus drew up short, and Marius took another step, uncertain. The Rangers around the gate tensed, most of the former slaves gone past them. The caravaners had stayed behind them, closer to the Outpost buildings, unhitching the brahmin from their wagons. “What kind of questions?” Marius said, when no one moved.

“Gentlemen, we’re very curious about you walking in and out of the Fort as easily as you did,” their officer said, hand resting on the butt of his revolver. “And why men matching your description went in and out of the Lucky 38 the day Mr. House was assassinated. We’ve done some digging on you in particular, Mr. ‘Rojas.’”

Several of the women had lingered on the other side of the gate, whispering to each other as they listened. Ridley was with them, and didn’t turn as she said, “They’re both Legionaries. They’ve been in the Mojave on Caesar’s orders from the start.”

Marius took a half-step back only to bump into Rex, trying to tug Damianus along, but he was rooted. The other Rangers had hands on weapons, a few on the edges of the group sidling past to surround them. Stella had stopped just on the other side of the fence, indecision on her face as the lead Ranger looked at her. Reluctantly, she said, “They are, sir. I saw them come and go to speak with Caesar several times at the Fort. But, sir, they are the _only_ reason we got out, they were the ones who killed—”

“That’s my mother.”

Damianus’ voice was so quiet, Marius was the only one who heard it. Marius squeezed his arm tighter, and he shook him off. “That’s my _mother.”_

The gate closed. Beyond it, Stella wore a bitter expression, and Ridley still had her back to them.

“That’s my _mother!”_ Marius caught Damianus’ pack as he tried to press after them, and the Rangers closed ranks, weapons not yet drawn. Rex whined, hackles starting to bristle.

Ridley wavered a moment, and took a step forward.

“Dixie,” Marius hissed, trying to pull him back. A glance behind them showed a pair of Rangers blocking the path to the Mojave. “Dixie, come on—”

_”That’s my mother!”_ Damianus tried to shake him off, but Marius caught an arm around his chest, dragging him away. He was screaming now, choking on tears as he fought to follow, _”That’s my mother!”_

“Dixie!” Marius had both arms around him now, hauling him back as Damianus pried at them. The Rangers were looking at one another, uncertain, but their leader nodded, and to a one they straightened, moving with purpose.

Ahead, Marius couldn’t pick Ridley out, in the crowd getting lost in the sunset.

“That’s my—” His voice broke, and he nearly heaved Marius off, lunging for the gate.

_”Damianus!”_

He turned sharply at the name, and Marius only saw the look on his face for the skin of a second, a raw grief that cut to the bone. But the Rangers were moving, and all he could do was grab Damianus by the arm, dragging him back to the road. The Rangers behind them were a half-second too slow, and Marius kneed the nearest in the gut as he bulled past, tossing him aside. Rex knocked into the other hard enough to throw him on his back, and the three of them charged down the hill, Marius with one hand still knotted into Damianus’ shirt.

He could hear him weeping as he ran, head-down and stumbling as Marius dragged him into the growing dark, Rex racing ahead of them with many looks behind. After a moment, Damianus found his feet enough to shake him off, and Marius only glanced over long enough to make sure he still followed, catching a glimpse of lights coming down from the Outpost behind them. He put on a burst of speed, headed up the highway to the north, knowing he should turn off the road for more cover, but too exhausted to do more than keep to the simplest path away.

Marius heard Damianus drop off after a while, and Rex skidded to a halt, panting. Marius stumbled as he slowed, hands on knees. Behind him, Damianus was limping, favoring his bad leg, breath still coming in rough sobs. “I don’t want to run,” he choked, nearly falling as Marius pulled him to the side of the road. He batted him away, leaning on a boulder as he caught his breath. “I don’t want to run.”

They had outrun signs of pursuit, for now, and Marius glanced north, to the lights of Primm. “We have to keep moving. Rex, go home. _Home._ Go to the King.” He tipped his head and whined, and Marius flapped his hands. “I know you know this one! _Home,_ Rex! Run! Good boy!”

Rex flattened his ears, licking the air by Damianus’ hand before turning away, tail tucked. Marius made out his slow trot north, pausing to glance behind him as he went. Marius couldn’t pay him any more mind, and his legs burned as he crouched next to Damianus. “I’m sorry. We have to get off the roads. Damianus, if they catch us—”

“I don’t _care!”_ The words seemed to tear themselves out, and Damianus shook where he sat, not wiping the tears from his face as it twisted into a grimace. Marius reached for him, and he raised his hands, baring his teeth as he took a shuddering breath. “I don’t care. Go away. Go _away!”_ he shouted, when Marius would have tried again. “I don’t care. I don’t want to run,” he said through the tears, like a mantra. “I can’t _do this_ any more, I don’t want to.”

A flashlight played across a stand of Joshua pine, some ways behind them, and Marius heard people calling to one another, coordinating their search. “Please just come with me,” Marius said, begging, trying to get him to meet his eye. “Damianus, _please,_ we have to keep—”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, refusing to look at him. His voice was barely above a whisper now, rough and rasping, and he buried his face in his hands. “I don’t care. I don’t care what happens. Leave me alone. Just go away. Go _away.”_

Marius almost reached for him again, curled up and shaking where he sat. A low dread in his gut, he stood, instead. “We’ll split up,” he said, looking again to the search to their south. “Just for now, okay? Get somewhere safe. I’ll find you. Damianus, I _will_ find you, alright?”

_Please be there for me to find._

He backed away, and Damianus didn’t look up. He couldn’t resist glancing back as he went back to the road, almost unable to pick out the hunched, despondent figure sitting in the shadows. Marius waited on the pavement as the lights drew nearer, and there was a shout from one of the Rangers, and he cut east, off the road and into the dust, the sounds of pursuit following.

He ran with his lungs burning, limbs gone leaden and numb, not caring when he stumbled and fell, just dragged himself back up to keep moving, to keep drawing them away. And in the back of his mind, like a prayer with no god to hear it, were the words, _please be there for me to find._


	13. Chapter 13

The night had gone quiet by the time Damianus was able to sit up, clutching at himself in the cold. He felt hollow, scraped raw inside, and as he listened to the wind rustle through the weeds, might have been the only man in the world. He shuddered. His body felt like it belonged to someone else as he stood, headed—where? The world felt unreal as he started walking, stopped. Where did he have to go? Marius had left him, Ridley had…

He was alone. That was all he could think, without broaching that terrible emptiness in his chest.

He shivered as much with fatigue as cold as he started moving again. There was a coyote den in the hills nearby—not safe, barely sheltered, but the animals would serve as a warning if anyone was looking for him. He approached it slowly, eyes averted from the eye-shine from the den mother; big enough to not be prey, effacing enough not to be a threat. It was a trick that worked on a bloodthirsty Legion mongrel, and worked just as well on a less aggressive animal. After a moment, he made out her shaking herself from nose to tail, pacing away as he curled up in the shallow scoop of rocks. He was asleep nearly as soon as his head rested on his arms.

Damianus woke in the pre-dawn light, nearly falling as he started to his feet, his surroundings unfamiliar. He'd slept like the dead, if not long enough by half—but it would have to do. For now. A pair of coyote pups watched him leave, gnawing on the shin bone of some unlucky animal.

He kept walking most of the day, barely stopping to rest. He had nowhere in mind, but he kept moving aimlessly, skirting wide around ranger stations and NCR holdings and keeping off the roads where Legion squads might be watching for him.

With any luck the worst of them would have returned to the Fort to reorganize, officers scrambling for guidance from Lanius and keeping order among the infantry in the wake of Caesar's death. All the same he made a passing effort to take routes that hid him from where _he'd_ have gone scouting, if it were him tasked to bring the assassins to justice. If they found him, they'd find him an easy target, exhausted and distracted. Compromised.

He wasn't really certain what they'd do with the news. What would he have done?

If it had happened before the Sierra Madre, before the Tops, before Goodsprings. What would he have done with that?

Caesar had been a god king—he'd believed that story, anyway. A few months ago Damianus would never have considered him a man who could die, least of all at the heart of his own army. Victory was always assured, Boulder only an obstacle on the road to the inevitable—the fault of the Burned Man, not of Caesar.

All it took was a few months, and he couldn't believe all the stupid things he'd really believed his whole life.

The Legion, and Caesar. The good he thought he was doing. The world he thought he was building.

_Family,_ he thought, with a bitter taste in his mouth.

Marius was right about all of it: Damianus had never had a family to lose. He had no way to know what he was missing.

So why, exactly, did it hurt so much?

He walked without stopping, until the near-constant aches in his right ankle and knee turned into a dull knife and his stomach gnawed at him more and more insistently. And then he kept walking, as the sun arced from horizon to horizon and left him in the dark.

It was somewhere in North Vegas that he finally stopped. Even here in the maze of tenements he wasn't out of the Legion's sight if they were looking for him. If he weren't so tired, if he weren't so deep in his own head—if he cared at all, he'd keep a sharp eye for anyone looking too closely at him. Or anyone trying too hard not to.

He didn't. But he made a concession for getting out of easy reach.

Damianus made his way through the slums towards the old industrial district, passing hovels and trash can fires at a distance, and came a decrepit factory he cased for signs of life. The doors were locked tight. There were sparse lights inside he could just make out through two hundred years’ worth of grime on the windows, but when he put his ear near one he heard only the puttering of old robots patrolling the floors. Likely insane, if it counted with machines; no doubt hostile, as they usually were. Which at least put them between him and anyone trying to follow the easy, subtle way to where he was going.

He walked around until he found a side of the building that sounded quiet. When he was satisfied nothing was passing the windows, he climbed.

Muscles straining, Damianus powered through his exhaustion and made handholds of windowsills and gaps in the brick, jumping when he had to, not trusting his weight to the rusted fire escape that had fallen away halfway down. He'd worked longer through worse. He told himself that, when his limbs were tired and clumsy.

Then near the top his right foot slipped.

His other failed to take the weight without time to brace himself and lost its footing as well. Damianus was left dangling, his heart pounding against his ribs. He held his grip despite the shaking in his arms, the feel of the rough brick scraping his fingers raw as they started to slip. Scrambling desperately, he felt around and tried to hook his left boot back onto a foothold he couldn't look down to see. After a few tries he found it, stabilized himself and stayed there for just a moment. He gasped to catch his breath.

It would be a long way down if he fell. He should have just found a nice little hole to crawl into like a rat, instead of whatever he thought he was doing up here. It would have been more practical, but he didn't really care much about practicality at the moment.

Not daring to linger in case he ran out of the strength to finish what he'd started, he used the last of it to heave himself up over the ledge.

Cresting the top, Damianus straddled the parapet and scanned the roof for any squatters with the same idea. None. Smarter than him, probably, or saner at least. There was one utility door he'd need to secure. No buckling in the roof that he could see in the moonlight; it looked sturdy, so he stepped onto it and made his way over.

Locked, handle and deadbolt. It didn't budge at all when he tried wiggling the door—twice, when his arms felt weak and shaky on the first go and he had to lean into it—the jamb warped around it tight from age and disuse. Nothing had come through here in a long time. If it decided to now, it would make too much noise busting the door open to catch him unawares.

He paced his way back to the brick parapet and sat down on it to shuck off one boot, then rolled up his pant leg and slowly unbuckled his brace. That done, he set it aside and lowered himself down to sit with his back to the bricks, stretching his sore leg out in front of him and propping his ankle up on his pack.

There were likely better places to rest. There _definitely_ were—the decision to take the high ground was practical, but not very. But it was safe enough up here. He liked it up here.

It was a long way down.

He pulled the canteen from his belt and drank, staring at the far side of the roof. From here the lights of the Strip were a smudgy glow, too far to pick out details but near enough to put out all the stars on the southwest horizon.

He hadn't really expected to see it again—which was stupid, but he just hadn't. He'd gotten some stupid idea in his head, gotten himself half an ounce of imagination for once in his life and pictured himself going west, out of the Mojave. Imagined going deep behind NCR lines to places he'd been before: Arroyo maybe, or try the help of the Followers in the Boneyard, or somewhere quieter. Just disappear into it all and become someone else away from the Legion, him and Marius... and Ridley. Some stupid fantasy of helping her settle down somewhere safe and make a new life, of getting to know her, forgetting all the bullshit that happened to them on the other side of the Colorado. Learning how to be a whole person, with skills and stories that didn't all circle back to killing. Learning how to be someone's son.

He was already having trouble picturing her face—not a total blank, but it was indistinct. He hadn't exactly memorized it. Never occurred to him at any time that it would be the last time he saw her.

Stupid.

His being her son hadn't meant to her what it meant to him. He barely knew what "mother" meant, but it wasn't supposed to mean abandoning her child. Mothers were supposed to love their children unconditionally.

_You aren't a child anymore._

_How many mothers did you kill?_

Damianus dropped his head and scrunched his eyes shut tight, scrubbing a hand over his face.

… How many families did he destroy? How many children did he wrench from their parents?

He'd have died if he'd said "no." There was no path before him but the one the Burned Man pointed him down. No one he could have been but the killing tool the Caesar demanded of him. He knew nothing else—they took away the rest of who he was. They took everything from him except the skills to kill for them, until he couldn't think of anything else he had to offer anyone or any reason they should care. They stripped him down until the killing was all he was.

But the excuses rang hollow, because he'd believed in it. He'd let it happen.

Fear didn't make him obey. He'd unlearned fear for his life as a boy at White Sands. As a thirteen-year-old man at Los Lunas.

He'd obeyed because he thought it was right.

Damianus was still shaking when he rubbed his hand back over the fuzz on his scalp, and he realized he was starving. When was the last time he ate? He lowered his foot to the ground, wincing, to dig in his pack for something. A couple of boxes and cans tumbled out, things he'd need to tear open and assemble, make a fire to cook. Nothing up here to do that with, and he wasn't getting back down the building tonight, not unless he felt like going down the fast way. The tin can, its label long since torn off, he could probably open with a knife and eat whatever was in it cold. It would take effort, though. He was so hungry it had gone right around the other side to nausea, but he wasn't invested enough in feeding himself to make an effort.

He kept digging for something else, and found a bruised apple and a cactus fruit at the bottom of his pack. And under them, when he pulled them out, was Caesar's Mark.

Damianus stared at it a moment. He reached in and hooked his finger in the tangled leather cord it was threaded on and yanked; it jangled on the concrete when it landed, and glinted up at him in the moonlight.

_How many mothers did you kill?_

He stared down at it while he bit into the mealy apple.

Damianus tried again to remember Ridley's face. Any of the women's—they were all vague, because he never could look too close, could he? The lasting impression was always the fear and suspicion in their eyes when they looked back. Even when he'd tried to be kind, or at least to not be cruel.

Even if he wasn't the one who stole them from their families and bound them. He must look a lot like the men who did, even to Ridley.

And he looked that way on purpose.

No wonder, then.

When he finished his apple he chucked the core across the roof, skipping it along the concrete until it smacked into the opposite guard wall. He picked up the cactus fruit, fishing in his pocket for a knife to cut the rind, and stopped, looking down at the mark again.

Picking it up and turning it in his hand, he watched the dim glow of the Strip glint off the bull stamped on its surface.

Caesar's death came too late. Freeing Ridley and the others... it didn't put a dent in the debts he owed. He should have run a long time ago, if he hadn't been so stupid. He should have said no. A thousand times, he should have said no, even if it meant his death. All the lives he ended or ruined to please Caesar—his own life wasn't worth any one of them. Least of all…

… how many? Dozens? Hundreds? Adding in the all the little ways he'd helped indirectly… thousands?

_How many mothers did you kill?_

Damianus moved to throw the mark across the rooftop too, but he hesitated.

That didn't seem far enough.

He turned and pulled himself up onto his good knee, and looked over the parapet. The ground was a long way down, some forty or fifty feet down to a concrete lot strewn with debris and rusted cars. Vegas sprawled, all blasted ruins this far out from the Strip at his back.

He wound back his arm and threw the mark with all his might—still plenty of it left when he wanted to make the effort. It arced a long way out, silent, winked a moment before he lost track of it. Two full seconds passed before he thought he heard it ping somewhere in the dark.

He folded his arms atop the guard wall and stared down after it, regarding the emptiness.

It was a long way down.

***

Marius paused, crunching through the snow on his way back to the Jacobstown bungalow. Marcus, the mayor, was gesturing to him. Taking a breath, he raised his hand in return as he approached, and Marius was barely in speaking distance when the big mutant spoke, frowning. “Some soldiers came up from Vegas today,” he said, frank to the point of rudeness. “Looking for you. Might be time you move on.”

Marius kept his face still, even as his heart sank. Not the news he’d wanted, at all. “Yes, sir. Thank you for letting me stay here.”

Marcus waved a hand. “No trouble. Wish I could thank you better for all you’ve done, instead of kick you out. But we can’t have NCR poke their heads up here any more than they do.” He looked down at him a moment longer, still frowning. “Hope you find your friend. You going anywhere particular after this, if we see him?”

He hiked his pack up a little more, chewing a lip as he thought. “No,” he said at last. “I’ll figure something out.”

The mutant nodded, but not without sympathy in his eye. “Good luck,” was all he said. Brusque as ever, but Marius felt he meant it.

The snowfall was fresh, and Marius kicked it off the tops of his boots as he walked, taking mental inventory of his things. Enough to survive on, for now. He had some fresh goods from the ghoul in the lab, who had been kind enough to pick up a few supplies for him, when she’d headed into the valley to trade.

He winced a little as he remembered the look she’d given him, when he’d asked for news of Damianus. He was getting tired of them, after almost three days of waiting. Three days with no word of him, no sign—was Jacobstown too remote? A place they’d spent too little time? Marius had visited gone back to the road south of Primm, to find no sign of him, visited places they had hidden before, in some of the odd shacks and ranches; he had even crept into the Novac hotel one night to find a layer of dust blown over everything, their window left ajar. Anywhere else was too busy, compromised, or too close to Legion and NCR eyes.

Leaving Jacobstown. They had come through here more than once, though, and Marius’ chest hurt as he thought of the look on Damianus’ face, looking up at the mountain peaks, taking deep breaths of the crisp, cold air.

It hurt worse as he remembered the deep silence between them, at the water’s edge at the Fort. _You would have died, too,_ and Damianus wouldn’t or couldn’t deny that he…

Marius tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Three days was a long time, with no sign.

He paused on the path to the bungalow he’d been living in. His own tracks went in and out—and another set went _in,_ with no sign of an exit. Human-sized prints—one of the soldiers Marcus had mentioned? He pulled the other strap of his backpack on, settling it firmly, and drew his machete before easing the doorknob open, the door unlocked.

He pushed it open fast, sweeping the room for threats. Empty—or not, it took a second sweep to see someone sitting with his back to him on the couch, leaning over the things Marius had left out on the coffee table.

He turned, looking over his shoulder. His voice was slightly raw as he said, “I leave you alone a few days, and you make a mess of this place.”

Damianus wouldn’t meet Marius’ eyes as he looked back, one of the photos Marius had taken of him hanging in his fingers. He looked tired, drawn, with smudges under his eyes and rough stubble on his cheeks.

The sight of him was enough to take Marius’ breath away, grip going weak, and he dropped his machete on the floor without hearing it land. Damianus stood, barely getting his feet under him before Marius was across the room, pulling him in so tight he heard the air driven out of him, both of them stumbling to catch their balance. Marius pressed his face into Damianus’ neck, teeth clenched, a knot in his throat as he held on to him.

“I thought you were gone,” he said, voice choked. Damianus pulled him in tighter, warm and real, the missing piece in a desperately empty space, and something in Marius broke. He sobbed as Damianus helped him to sit, not letting go. _”I thought you were gone.”_

Damianus held him as he tried to get a grip on himself, an arm around him, rubbing the back of his head and neck with his free hand. Marius just held on to him, settling with his head on his shoulder as Damianus buried his face in his hair, breathing deep. As he calmed, he ran a hand up Damianus’ neck, rubbing his fingers in his hair. “Are you alright?” he said, voice rough. “Where have you been?”

“Hiding out.” Damianus’ voice was little more than a whisper, breath warm on his scalp. “Safe.”

Marius had is eyes closed, savoring his touch too much to move. He rubbed at his shoulder a little, instead. ”But are you alright?”

A long silence, and Marius felt him shake his head. He tried to sit up, but Damianus held him in place, drawing him in tight and nuzzling at he soft spot between his neck and his ear. “My own mother thought I was too much of a monster to trust,” Damianus said, steady, soft. “And she was right—”

“She wasn’t,” Marius said, rubbing at his back. “She _used_ you, she—”

“She didn’t owe me anything,” he said, voice harder. “I’m not the child she lost. It…makes sense, that she didn’t want to risk her life, getting to know me. I couldn’t ask her to. Every Legionary she’s ever known would have hurt her, or treated her like a _thing._ She didn’t know better. Couldn’t expect better. I can’t blame her for leaving me behind.”

Marius shook his head as he talked, teeth clenched. “No,” he said, sitting up. Damianus looked back at him with his blank face on like a shield. “No, fuck her. You risked your life for her. She owed you a—” he groped for anything to say “—a conversation, a chance, _anything._ You’re a good man.” He grabbed Damianus’ hands as he tried to pull him close again, hiding his face. “You’re a good man, a kind man, you went _so far_ beyond what any Legionary might have done for her—”

“Low bar,” Damianus murmured, not meeting his eyes.

_”You’re not a monster.”_ Marius took his face in his hands, made him face him even if his eyes were turned down. “You’re so kind you can’t even blame her for this. And if she didn’t give you a chance, if she didn’t care to find that out, that’s _her_ fault, _her_ loss, and _fuck her_ for hurting you like this.”

His face twitched, some other expression trying to break through. But he smoothed it over, cradling Marius’ cheek with one hand, using his thumb to wipe a way a tear, and was silent for a long moment. “I’d just hoped…”

“I know.” He turned his head, kissing the palm of his hand. “I did, too. But I’m angry enough for both of us, if you won’t be.”

He let Damianus put his arms around him, the two of them holding each other as they just breathed. Marius could feel Damianus’ heart beating through his back, rubbing at it slowly as he pressed his face into his neck, wishing the moment wouldn’t end. Damianus had pulled his good leg up onto the couch, nearly sitting in Marius’ lap. He could feel his breath on the back of his neck as he reached up, hesitant, one hand toying with the length of his hair.

After a while, Marius murmured, eyes closed, “We ought to get moving.” Damianus just gave a small _hmm,_ acknowledging, and settled more comfortably against him.

***

There was a caravan headed to Utah, north of New Vegas. Marius had spoken with them briefly, as he had searched for Damianus, thinking they might be cover for him leaving the Mojave—but they had wanted someone with a Pip-boy, and able to map their route, and turned him away. With Damianus in tow, there was a chance they could talk them into taking on another set of hands.

They thought it would be a straight shot from Jacobstown to there, but near the foot of the mountain path, Damianus grabbed Marius’ arm, dropping to a crouch and pointing. He followed suit, dropping behind a patch of brush as he looked along his hand. He could just make out figures moving through the trees downhill, and made out the banner on the back of one as he passed through a gap in the pines.

The two of them shared a look, settling with hands on weapons. But the Legionaries were headed away from them, and after a long wait to ensure they were well gone, Damianus stood, cautiously. “The Followers have a safehouse, near here.”

“I saw it,” Marius said, head on a swivel as they moved. “And if I did, so did they. They had to have known we worked with them.”

Damianus frowned, but nodded. “There’s a few shacks around.” He glanced up at the lowering sun and added, “And I don’t want to moving around in the open, tonight.”

They wound up in a small farmstead, as the sun went down, long-abandoned and with the front door still partially boarded up. Damianus stayed outside to keep watch as Marius slipped between the planks to case the interior. Some food had been tucked away, and he stuffed a few unspoiled things under his arm, pausing to consider a rack of bottles tucked in the back of a shelf.

Damianus took the beers dubiously, when Marius stuck his arm out from between the boards, clinking them together. “You’re not trying to get us killed, after everything we’ve done?”

“We’re not Legionaries, anymore,” Marius said, tossing the food ahead of him before worming out of the doorway. “Who’s going to tell?”

“That team of assassins, when they find us drunk off our butts out here,” he said, but was already patting his pockets down for a tool to open them. 

They sat beside each other outside the shack, by a fire pit still smoldering gently from the last travelers to pass through. The sun was nearly resting on the horizon, the last of its light low and orange as they scraped up a meal, and Damianus laughed at the face Marius made at the first sip of the beer. “Somewhere between bitter drink and liquid bread,” he said, peering into the bottle before taking another taste.

The silence was comfortable as they ate, even as Marius caught himself staring at Damianus, and noticed the occasional long look back. Once they finished, they just sat, watching the sun. Marius had a bottle in one hand, the other resting loosely on his knee, and felt his breath catch as Damianus gently took hold of it. His eyes closed as he felt at it, squeezing the palm and feeling his way down his fingers, examining the scars and callus. The touch sent a shivering, spreading tingle up Marius’ neck, leaving him slack-jawed and grinning.

He roused himself enough to look over at him, and Damianus’ smile widened as he saw his expression. Marius stuck his tongue out and tried to get a hold of himself, sobering as he thought. “What do I call you now? Just Dixie?”

He tipped his head, considering, eyes flicking to his, then away—and back, holding his gaze until he finally shrugged. “Dixie in public, obviously. But I’m still Damianus. I always have been,” he said, idly rubbing his thumb on the back of Marius’ hand. “It doesn’t matter who I follow, that’s just…my name, as much as Dixie is.” His face fell, and he turned away with another shrug. “I never… I didn’t think to ask Ridley…”

Marius pushed himself closer, facing him, and his heart skipped a beat as he reached up to cup his cheek. Dixie smiled a little, if feebly, and said, “What about you? ‘Alex’ was just an alias, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” he said, letting him change the subject. “I…That’s still safest, where people can hear. I’m used to answering to it. Otherwise…” His breath caught. He could. It would be good cover, even, the NCR would be looking for Alex Rojas, and for Marius, but not for…

…Not for that scared boy, that carried that name.

“Just keep doing as we have been, I guess,” Marius said at last, letting his hand fall.

Dixie nodded, reaching for it. Marius snatched it back, daring him to try again. He did—and muttered “Crap,” at a clinking noise, elbowing his bottle over. It was already nearly empty, and he tipped it up to drain the last few drops. Marius stared a moment, and made sure he was busy prying the caps off the next round before he looked down.

Dixie set the empty aside. “You don't really want…”

“Too late, it's open,” he said, passing one over. “We can't exactly get into more trouble.”

Dixie shifted closer, and Marius realized he was staring, off at the horizon, something like relaxation setting in despite their circumstances. He reached for his hand again, and Marius tried to grab back. Dixie laughed as he pulled it out of reach, and Marius lunged—just for Dixie to nearly fall over backward, throwing his arm back over his head.

Marius caught him by the front of his shirt, pulling him forward, and they both doubled over, wheezing laughter. It took a long moment for them to settle, breaking into a fresh round of snickers whenever they thought it had passed. With the distraction, Marius managed to get his hand in Dixie’s, resting palm-up on his shin. He ran his fingers over the wraps on his hand, down onto his wrist, tracing at the tendon and bone under the cloth.

He had that same soft grin as he did, staring down at their hands as the light faded to twilight, heads almost touching. After a moment, Dixie said, “What’s something you’ve always wanted to do?”

Marius kept his head down, taking a breath as though it would cool the way he flushed. “A lot of things,” he said, and took another drink. “I know, uh…” He started to laugh again, nervous, and Dixie joined in. Marius glanced up at him, saw him smiling, and let out a breath. That name was in his head, and the memories that went with it. But if there was anywhere, with anyone… “Some songs. There’s songs I remember, that…”

He was nodding along, encouraging, and Marius rubbed at his face, still trying to keep the self-conscious laughter at bay. He kept his voice down—old habit, singing under his breath to himself as he walked—and kept the passage short. It was simple enough, a four-beat rhythm, but in a language that may well have gotten him crucified, if he’d dared speak it in the Legion.

It was a little thing, and Dixie couldn't have understood a word of it, but he sat enraptured, that smile curving goofily up one corner of his mouth.

"You kept that," he breathed.

Marius ducked his head and tried to take a drink, but Dixie had his hands in his, pulling them down. He held tight, and Marius let his forehead rest on his. “What about you?” he said, voice soft.

Dixie shook his head a little, and let out a faint laugh. Marius looked up at him, not moving his head.

“This. Things like this, I think,” he said, sounding content just to be here now, like for a while all the time it took to get here, all the obstacles they’d faced, didn't matter. “Marius… Do you want to kiss me?”

“Yes—N—I…” Marius sat up, pulling away to look him in the face. He swallowed. “Yes?”

They stared at each other, in the last of the light. He studied his face, inches away, clear gray eyes on his own; watched his lips curve up as he started to grin. Finally, Dixie said, “God, you're the smartest idiot I know. It was a request, not a survey.”

He gave a sheepish laugh, and leaned forward.

There was no saying, anymore, what might await the two of them… But the uncertainty wasn’t so bad, at one another’s side.

And there were some things worth courting death for.


End file.
